


TL;DR

by ghostofadrunkensailor (animejunkie12)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Best Friends, Cake, Church Isn't an AI, Co-workers, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Most Writers Are Writers, Old Friends, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tuckington mention, Useless Bosses, Writer and Editor Hijinks, someone said "Grif as a writer" is a cliche so I'm stealing it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animejunkie12/pseuds/ghostofadrunkensailor
Summary: Where Simmons is the haggard editor to Grif, who spends all day making TMZ-esque clickbait articles. You won't believe what happens next!





	1. A Preview of Things To Come

He still dreamt about it. Not as much as he used to, as it wasn’t like the days where stress would mount and any sleep he got was plagued with the nightmares one can only get when their brain has to process so much terror in a day. But no good fear goes ignored for very long. He laid deathly still in bed, his body in full REM sleep but his mind running rampant. People, towering figures that jabbed, poked their fingers at him, jeering as he tried to back away, every step back leading to another hit from behind. He was in a circle of them, listening to them taunt at anything they saw, anything they didn’t like about him. 

He shouted in his dream, fighting back as much as his own subconscious would let him. The shout came out in the real world as a slight whine, not that it helped someone who lived alone. Meanwhile, the section of his brain that controlled his logic remained convinced that this was all real and that he could be in serious danger. He whimpered again, as the figures got larger, and more grotesque. This wasn’t like other dreams, either. Other dreams had him winning, escaping or even waking himself up. The dreams he was used to never lasted this long. Faces that weren’t there morphed into faces he wished he had never seen. He sighed, still huddled on the floor as they figures got more and more inhuman. Just then, his brain came late to the party to remind himself that he was just dreaming. Relief was just about to scoop him out of his panic when he heard screams. The voices that were coming from around him changed from inaudible harassment to a dull roar, like they knew that their prey was coming to. They culminated, the roar growing higher pitched and more malicious. Angry shrieks building to crescendo, he cupped his ears, hearing himself scream with them and being unable to stop it.

Grif awoke, the beating of his heart the first thing he noticed. Second, the cold darkness around him. He forced his breathing to quicken, the slow intake of air suffocating him. He was home. Well, if a cheap apartment could be called home. At the very least, he was safe. He turned over, grabbing his phone and squinting at the numbers. 1:40 AM. He groaned. He could try getting back to sleep, but the screaming was still fresh in his mind, so vivid that Grif swore his ears were ringing. There was no way in hell that Grif was willing going back in there, not unless Act 2 of the dream consisted of him lighting the bastards around him on fire.

He glanced at his phone again, tapping the messenger app. His eyes caught on that familiar face, and he considered how late it actually was. The man had been up way later than this before, hadn’t he? He moved his thumb to open the chat box, and then closed it immediately, before placing his phone upside-down on his nightstand. “You can deal with this, Dexter.” He rubbed his face, turning over on his stomach and burying his face into a mound of pillows before the very real problems that had come to greet his now conscious brain. “A dream never killed anyone.”

He spent the rest of the night willing himself to conjure up a flamethrower while he was still lucid. Just in case.

\-----------  
Ka-chick. The soft depression of the button on a cassette recorder. A hum, a whir, the mechanisms inside performing the decades-long routine that many still remember. Quick, but gentle scratching sounds of an expensive pen on a new journal. It had only been picked out for its binding, a carefully woven side that layered the letter “S” in its pattern. A hand closed the book, the pen still resting on in between the pages. “I appreciate this chance to, um, talk with you.” The man said. 

“As do I.” 

The tips of Simmons’s finger still lay on the inside of the journal’s cover, ready to pry it open at any moment. He glanced at the recorder, checking a second time that yes, it was working correctly. He straightened his posture, swallowed. “So then. Are you ready to start, Captain?” 

The person across the table smiled with the fondness of an old high school teacher, someone who lived through their career watching kids make the same mistakes but still held out hope for those that needed it. This person, who many called the Captain, regarded Simmons with nothing but the knowing patience that he rarely saw in his daily life. “What should we talk about first?” She clasped her hands and leaned back, a glass of something alcoholic cradled in her grasp. 

“Well,” Simmons let out a deep breath. In practice, the interviewer was supposed to ask simple, noninvasive questions to set the interviewee at ease. But, judging from the drink in the Captain’s hand, and Simmons’s own uncontrollable leg bounce, he seemed a lot less at ease than she did. He hadn’t arranged the interview. It felt sickening, that he should be asked to interview someone he admired so much, on the same day they tell him she's being fired. Both the logic and emotional centers of his brain told Simmons he deserved better than that. They also mentioned that the Captain deserved better too. 

He settled with a basic statement of “Well, you’ve worked at our publishing company for around two years. Considering how much change you got to witness firsthand, it’s rather marveling how long you stayed.” 

“Some people work at one job for even longer than that. There are those that spend their entire lives in the same place.” 

“Do you think they’re content with that?” 

“Do you think I’d be here right now if I had been content with a mere two years?” She drawled, bits and pieces of an accent that Simmons couldn’t quite place. Any more southern, and it would’ve cemented just how out of place she seemed from the people around her. You rarely found people from the southern states in a cold and lonely Northern state like theirs unless they had nowhere else to go.

Before that thought could reach any depressing conclusion, however, Simmons dropped it. He pulled his pen out, putting a mark near a question listed on the first page. “I guess we can start as early as the first-” 

The Captain started talking before Simmons had the chance to finish his sentence. “How much do you think honesty is worth?” 

Simmons looked up quickly. The Captain wasn’t prone to interrupting others, but the question was what got him. “Excuse me?” 

She smiled like that was exactly what she wanted to hear. She sipped her drink. “The first weeks of it saw me full of hope. A new job, the perfect career starter for the young writer looking for a chance.” She laughed slightly. The bitterness didn’t seep through her chuckle just yet, but Simmons reckoned it wouldn’t take long. 

“And after that?” His fingers gave the occasional tap against the paper he was holding down. 

“Not sure. Disbelief was a good word for it then.” She muttered something else into her glass. “Disappointment would have suited better now that I think about it. I had more questions than ever after finding out that most of the people I had looked up to before being hired were just there to make money off of what I could offer them. There was a more resilient question among them, one that flew back and forth every time I looked into the fresh face of a new boss or the weathered face of a co-worker.” 

Simmons leaned forward in his chair, the fingers tapping a little faster now. “What’s that?” 

“Is life really this easy? New recruits came in to write the second they could find the money to hire them. Hey, new content was good business in their eyes. That is... until the paychecks rolled in.” She sniffed, indignation now at the front of her tone. 

Simmons exhaled slowly, understanding what she meant without her having to finish the thought. He was new (or had been new) for the past couple weeks. Watched some of his closest classmates just walk out of the door a few days before. The excitement over being with the company had already started to fade for him. The Captain shifted to put the glass in between them. Her hands moved more fluidly as she started to explain just the kind of process that Simmons was afraid he would also go through. 

“See, you start off questioning yourself. ‘Is talent real?’ ‘Am I wasting my time?’ A period of time will pass, you’ll develop this routine that’s almost comfortable enough that you stop doubting what you can do. It builds, like any labor of love. Everything takes time, some of it a second, others take years. But all things require effort.” Simmons found himself staring at her palms and fingers as they stretched and manipulated the air around them, an optical illusion that added to her words. 

He coughed, and she placed her hands back down on her lap. “Is that why you started,” he cleared his throat again, the hard metal seat becoming all the more uncomfortable as he spoke, “erm, ‘acting out’?” 

“Ah, you mean the fights.” She gave a smile that bordered on a cheeky grin. “In my defense, I never got violent. Wish I knew how they thought it was a fight when I had never once raised my voice or a fist at anyone.” It reminded him of someone he knew. “Of course, maybe that just makes me a coward.” In fact, there were plenty of traits that reminded Simmons of a close friend, which could possibly be the reason he was so forlorn to be her last interview with their publishing house. Where would she go after this? The fact that he didn’t have an answer caused a deeper seated anxiety that he didn’t want to address. At the very least, he wouldn’t address it while he was sober. The smirk remained on her face as she again made eye contact with Simmons. “Tell me, what would do you think would happen, if you had the courage to speak without fear?” 

Simmons needed no time at all to answer that question. “I probably wouldn't be single right now, that’s for sure.” He got a grin of his own as the Captain broke out into a loud laugh. “Hey, maybe people would respect me like they respect you.” 

The Captain sobered up at that last statement. Her kind eyes cast down, resting her gaze at the drops of condensation that absorbed into the wood underneath. “Do you worry about what people think of you often?” 

More than I should, Simmons thought. “About as much as the next guy.” 

“Too much, then.” She waved a hand in the air dismissively. “But that’s just me.” Her smile had fallen. “Seen a lot of people give up what they love just to be respected by their peers. Almost happened to me.” She stared at the glass, her mouth ready to ask for another drink, but still refraining. “You know,” she started to talk but lapsed into silence. The whirring of Simmons’s recorder was the only thing to fill the room, as Simmons had found himself too concentrated on the individual in front of him to fidget. She breathed in, opened her mouth again. Closed it, exhaled. Simmons’s hand went to pause the recording when she spoke again. “Didn’t make many friends while I was here.” 

Simmons didn’t have a response. Truly, there was no response to a statement like that. His hand still hovered over the pause button. He could handle things being uncomfortable for himself, but he was about to make someone else upset, just so the company could have their report. Her stare flickered to that hand, and her face turned back into the tired optimism it had before. “It’s alright.” 

“You sure?” 

She smiled again. It set Simmons at more ease than he had first realized. “It’s nice that you still care, even about people like me.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “The last few weeks turned out about as shitty as I knew they would. Or hoped they would. There’s a point you get to, where the lying that you do is no longer to protect yourself from getting hurt. I lied to myself about how I’d be able to make it work, make the people that didn’t care somehow understand. Lying so much that it just caused more pain and only required more lying. Keep the cycle going. Arguing with the boss, fighting with anyone just so they had a reason to fire me. You haven’t got to that level of frustration yet.” She looked up at him. “Maybe, you’ll never have to.” 

His leg was bouncing again, as he replayed the scenes in his head. To want to leave a place so badly that you would resort to turning against people you had trusted before seemed too far-fetched to be real. Too cinematic. He wondered if he could ever stand up for anything the way she did. 

Simmons all of a sudden became aware of how late their session had gone. He would have to stay up late transcribing everything, not to mention get to work early in the morning if he was going to be able to-

“Hey, Simmons?” The Captain had straightened out her back, the posture of a noble leader. You didn’t get called the Captain for no reason. He had already pressed the stop button when had started to talk again. “Can I ask you something?” 

Anything, he thought. Of all the people to be curious about someone like Simmons, who spent his life the way a sea cucumber spends its time at the bottom of the ocean. Well, Simmons actually didn’t have any idea how a sea cucumber lived its life. He had a feeling that it was probably still more interesting than his. “Go ahead.” 

“How badly would you fight for something you didn’t even know you wanted?” The question was deadpan, and it struck him like a ton of bricks. He stared at her. The revelation that there was no way he would ever see this woman again had compounded with the fact that Simmons may have been one of her only friends. He leaned forward and took the glass, that had now formed a nice ring in the wood. There was still a sip of the scotch left if you counted the ice that added it’s own watery flavor to the drink. 

He downed it anyways. “Knowing me, I’d cause enough trouble right up until it was too late to fix anything.” He placed the glass back down. “Can’t be any worse that what I’ve gotten myself into now.” 

Smiles didn’t get much more genuine than that one. Her eyes crinkled, on the verge of laughing again, but holding it back the way some people held their tears. He was going to miss her. 

“I hope you get the chance, then.” 

It wouldn’t be until four years later that he would get that chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter 2016.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Hopefully.


	2. This Simple Fic Will Change Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are those that wonder- "Who writes clickbait? Who would spend their short time on earth writing articles like this?" 
> 
> I've never met the people that do ask these questions, but for the sake of a story, we'll pretend that the writers are people we know. Because more often than not, the ones who have the shittiest jobs are the people we relate to the most.

It was the dumbest thing that he had ever read, that much was fact. Simmons looked up, at the beaming face and careless posture of the man sitting in front of him. He sat with one arm draped across the back of a borrowed folding chair while staring back at Simmons with a smug smile that Simmons wished he could go one day without seeing. He paused to take a breath, laid down his pencil, and realized that it would take much more effort to make words form in his mouth. As overused as the concept was, Simmons felt he had every right to worry about the fact that his IQ might be dropping as they both sat there in the dimly-lit office.  
Grif seemed to be waiting for something, so Simmons laid both of his palms flat down on his desk and said the first thing that came to his mind.

“No.”

Grif’s expression did not sour. “That’s what you always say.” And, dammit, it was. Simmons ruminated over how he got to this point in his life every time Grif slapped a piece of printer paper onto his desk. Why, he lamented, did Grif think it would be any different this time?

Simmons struggled. Struggled to keep his hands pressed to the desk, struggled to keep his already terse tone from sounding any more stressed. No, it had not been the first refusal Grif had gotten from the man who tried to be both his editor and his friend. He replayed a scene where Grif walks in again, a new piece of paper in his hand but the same look on his face. He imagined that scene replaying itself as the sun continued to rise and fall without pause. Simmons didn’t have to wonder what hell was like, he already knew.

He ventured again, “Did you ever think that there might be a reason I say it so often?”

“Because you don’t understand what good art is?”

The blood that was boiling behind Simmons’s ears now warmed the breath that hissed through his teeth. This guy really was an idiot. That or Simmons was being conned. Sighing and running a hand through his unkempt hair wasn’t working to calm him. Count back from ten, he told himself. Count back from as long as you needed to. In fact, why not count back from the number of seconds that this man has wasted in your life?

But yet again, it fell back on Simmons. Why was Grif still here? Simmons let him stay. But that answer made no sense past the surface. So why did Simmons let him stay?

Two reasons. The first one was, unfortunately, money. Simmons couldn’t deny that what Grif wrote did make money, as much as he wanted to expel that information from his brain.

Anyone who's used the internet in the past months would have noticed a trend in certain articles, links, threads, comments, or even those emails grandmothers like to send to try to connect to their grandchildren. Despite how terribly they're spelled, how unsure their content is, or how badly people could fight over them, they still get attention. Clickbait makes more traffic than Simmons honestly thinks it should, but anyone who relies on that attention as part of their paycheck knows not to mess with a power that large. If there's a misleading title and an eye-catching picture, anything is possible.

How unsavory, Simmons mused, that Grif would be one of the many to figure this out. Grif, who Simmons knew to be the laziest person out of his high school graduating class, would have gladly taken up any method of quick cash. So, he went from a promising writer to… to whatever was sitting in his office at that moment. Had Simmons also not been in need of money, he probably wouldn’t have let Grif walk through the front doors, much less given him a position at their publishing office. But it goes without saying that nowadays Simmons finds himself in a perpetual state of “will work for food”.

The second reason was a little harder to discern. If Simmons had to get down to the root of it, he would say that the two of them were friends for much longer than either anticipated. Same high school, same college, and the same dreary town where they promised to leave behind by the time they were eighteen and then remained in past their mid-twenties. Teenage rebellion wasn’t as long lasting as the adult-onset need for a stable life is.

It was almost sad, how much they ‘accidentally’ molded their lives to fit in with the other. Like a friendship of convenience, when in reality, neither of them had any other friends. So when Grif asked for a job, Simmons offered one. Grif had to use his Creative Writing degree one way or another. And Simmons wasn’t about to let his friend starve, after all.

“I can’t approve this. Not in good conscience.” Simmons slid the paper back over to Grif. “Regardless, even as clickbait, this isn’t your best work.”  
Simmons knew he was about to protest, so he cut him off by lifting the paper directly in front of Grif’s face. “Look at this.” The large font at the top of the paper read: ‘What Orange Vendors Don’t Want You to Know; The Secret Truth about Oranges”.

Grif shrugged. “I figured if I didn’t like the title, I could split it up. Maybe fruit vendors are holding back the truth, maybe it’s just a secret truth that a higher power is holding.” His answer showed steadfast confidence like only he believed in the underdog. Still, he shifted in his seat as he said it. “Either way, I have my bases covered.”

Simmons pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I meant. You know…” Simmons sighed, “You know that that’s not what I meant. I mean, really. Oranges?”

Grif shot forward in his seat, leaning himself towards Simmons like he was ready for that exact question. “Listen.” Simmons knew what was coming. “Oranges have peels, right?”

Simmons groaned. “Grif, I don’t-“

“Hey, hey! Hold on.” Grif threw his hand out in front of him as he interrupted Simmons, gesticulating that ‘now’ he was serious. “Oranges have peels to protect themselves. But! They used to have seeds before that got taken out by us, but we never took away the peels! Why? We don’t eat the peels!”

“We don’t eat banana peels either,” Simmons replied, and then wanted to slap himself as Grif’s gesturing got wilder.

“See, you DO get it!” he boasted. “So I’m thinking: You can eat the skin on apples, and pick the leaves off of strawberries, no problem! Grapes? No problem! So why keep the fruits on other skins? Oranges, bananas, kiwis”, he started listing fruits with his fingers, “melons, avocados-“

“Avocados aren’t a fruit.“ Simmons moved closer to shorten the already small distance that lay between him and Grif, until the edge of the desk pressed a line into his stomach. He propped his elbows up and folded his hands in front of his face. “Moreover, Grif, this isn’t like you.”

He was rambling, oblivious to Simmons’s last statement. “There’s gotta be something behind it,” his arms slowed their flailing. “Heh.”

Simmons was lucky that Grif chose that instant to stare anywhere other than in front of him because the look of pity on his face would have gotten him slapped. “What’s actually going on?”

Grif threw his head back and exhaled loudly. “You don’t give up, do you?” Simmons didn’t respond. “Boss said that if I could get articles out quicker then I could get a raise.”

Now it was Simmons’s turn to be exasperated. “Is this why they’ve all been declining in quality too?”

Grif turned his head at Simmons and raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dude, you just tried to give me a story on fruit peels.”

“Besides that one. The other ones were fine.” Grif blew a lock of hair out of his face, and then mumbled, “Just a bit rushed.”

“Right,” he muttered in reply. Simmons flashed back to the two previous stories Grif had given him. One titled “What You Need to Know about Prime Numbers” and another twenty minutes later labeled “Why You Should Trick Your Friends into Thinking You’re Married”. If only Grif wrote satire. Had that been the case, this stream of bad ideas would be acceptable. But no, serious news outlets needed a serious attitude in their topics, no matter how shitty those topics turned out to be.

To this day, Simmons despaired over the future they both could have had if they just made a comedy movie in college. But then again, who ever heard of student films flourishing on the early internet?

He turned the paper towards him again, examining it closer. This was one of those moments where Simmons had to recognize that this was just how his life was going to be for… probably until the end of time. At the very least, Simmons needed to lend a hand. “The title sucks. Even split up, it looks like a joke.”

“It is a joke.” Grif huffed. “This job is a joke.”

“You got any other places ready to take you?” Grif had no response, and Simmons continued. “Make the title less vague. If you’re going to talk about orange peels, you might as well say that.”

“Thought the name of the game was to mislead people.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s misleading enough.” He took a red pen and started scratching notes into the paper. “I’ll fix the rest and send it up.” Something in Simmons’s subconscious told him there was bound to be one higher-up that liked this kind of “literature”.

“You’re kidding.” Grif’s tone betrayed disbelief. 

His was more resigned. “I’ve accepted worse.”

“Well, I appreciate it. It’ll be nice to finally be able to live on my wage. Bills are killing me, lately,” he laughed nervously, his words distracted from their meaning.  
Simmons hummed in acknowledgment, his pen gliding along the paper. He paused to shake it, before throwing it away and grabbing a fresh pen.  
Grif seemed to get meeker as he spoke, “Hey, speaking of boring adult woes, do you think maybe I could stop by your place for the weekend?”

Simmons didn’t look up from his desk. “Something going on?”

“Not exactly, no,” he said defensively. “Besides, can’t I hang with my best bro?”

That made Simmons pause. Grif came over whenever he wanted, usually without an invite. What could possibly warrant one after all this time? “Sure, as long as you’re not in trouble with the law or anything.”

He set his pen down and leaned back, admiring his editing handiwork. It wasn’t something Simmons would read, but it was decent enough for the people that he knew it was aimed at. Even a quick click or brief glance counted in this day and age. “I’ll have this rewritten and sent up tonight, as long as- ah, shit.” As he was talking, his eyes caught onto the clock. Fifteen minutes past the hour, and an hour later than when he was supposed to leave work. There was no doubt that he’d have to finish this at home. He folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

Grif got up hurriedly, also noticing the time. “Whoops. I guess time flies when you’re having fun.” Simmons shot him a look, and he stuck out his tongue.

“So are you coming with me then?” Simmons asked. “It’s a work night, so you might as well.”

“Oh, can’t wait for me to show up?” Grif purred, which made Simmons back up a step. Grif laughed at that. “I still need to grab some things from my place, but I’ll be over later.”

Simmons opened the door for Grif. “After you.”

“How chivalrous.”

“Just trying to get you out of here faster.”

“Oh, so eager to have me alone at your house,” Grif said with in an amused voice.

Simmons rolled his eyes. “Why is it a personal goal of yours to hit on me once a day?”

“Why can’t you realize we’re meant to be?”

“Get out of my office.”

Grif laughed as he scooted past Simmons and out the doorway. Simmons pretended to be annoyed as he switched off the lights, but felt a grin form on his face. Giving credit where credit’s due meant Simmons admitting that Grif was pretty funny. But that also meant adding onto Grif’s ego, and Simmons could barely handle the size it was now.

Grif waved as he started to walk to his car. “Try not to miss me while I’m gone.”

“That’s asking a lot, you know!” he shouted back, as Grif climbed into his car. And with a few turnovers of a bad engine, and a kicking exhaust, Grif was gone. Simmons sighed again, his posture slumping as he gazed up at the street lights that were just starting to turn on. No car for him, and no bus for another thirty minutes.

It was going to be a long walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off to the races! I said that I would start uploading during winter, and it just snowed for the first time this season.  
> I'd like to thank RomanceOnExpress, who has been beta-reading the chapters that I do have and has been giving me some really great insight on my writing. You should go check them out!


	3. People Who Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons asks himself a lot of questions. Those with the most astute sense of foresight will note that Simmons will do this a lot throughout the story. 
> 
> Also, Grif tries his best.

Is friendship complicated? In the grand scheme of ‘he said, she said’ (and in the grander scheme of ‘he meant, she meant’), it would seem so. It would seem that friendship is at the same level, or yet, more complicated than love. Not because of the effort of a friendship, mind you, but because of the types. There are more categories and ever changing requirements for friendship it’s a marvel how anyone can make a friend, much less form a clique. And then there were those best friends that didn’t need to try hard to be close to one another. A most confusing friendship, where both people happen to matter the most to each other, despite the lack of trying and difficult circumstances dictating that this should be the furthest thing from the truth. Yet most of the time, it exists.

It was a long walk for Simmons. Hell, it was still a long walk. People didn’t just tote about their driver’s licenses and complex cars in the city to look cool; it was also a necessity. He kicked his feet forward, letting his shoulders hunch slightly as the irritants of the day settled into his body and cracked from inside his skin, the feeling akin to polluted water freezing and breaking apart the large walls of concrete beside a highway. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the road to his home was consistently being built upon itself every day. A much better thought than whether Simmons was just getting out of shape.

So, what ‘was’ Grif to Simmons? Were they “best bros”? It felt like they barely even talked to each other, barely acknowledged each other’s lives. Living close for years is different from steady, healthy communication between people who trust one other. Simmons had been certain of how uncertain he was of Grif for a long time, so why did this “friendship of convenience” last? Can a friendship be as coincidental as theirs?

Simmons took a deep breath in through his nostrils and straightened his posture. At least the air was nice. It wasn’t easy to find that in many busy cities, and it was becoming less common even in suburbs. The wind did most of the work, but you could also count on the town itself undergoing a “green” movement. Which was nice too, because it meant that people still cared. Simmons found comfort simply in the idea that there were people who cared.

He always asked himself if Grif still cared. It was only recently that Simmons started asking if Grif ever cared. It was a damn shame, in a way. Average marks in school paired with an average streak in college. Even though he slept through most his classes, Grif got away by the skin of his teeth his whole life, only to get as far as a desk job that took your life-force and paid it back for ten dollars an hour.

Further back, a portion of his mind urged. Early spring, his senior year of high school. What had Grif said to him? Oh, right. “I guess there are worse things than spending my life bickering with you.” Grif wasn’t a Casanova by any means, but there existed a platonic charm in those words. The context of the situation is the most important part because before that moment Grif never said anything that suggested he enjoyed Simmons’s company. For all Simmons knew, he just stayed around for food and homework answers. And because neither of them knew how to make friends. ‘Ease’ was the keyword in this backstory, but Simmons knew that at some point he had latched onto the idea of being close friends. It would explain why Simmons had gone out of his way to give Grif a job when there were more qualified people from college that he had spoken to before him. Sure, Grif had skills. But Grif also had a friend, and in this economy that got you farther than any overblown resume did.

Simmons frowned at the sidewalk underneath him. This town needed people who cared about it. What it didn’t need, was a publishing office. And what it REALLY didn’t need was a publishing office that had no idea how to succeed as one. To describe the business would be futile; anyone can turn on their TV and go find any sitcom about the middle class. The same carbon-copy atmosphere, with just a hint more of desperation to be different. God help the lot of them, the employees who pushed to make their editors or head editors happy while jumping towards unrealistic goals in the pursuit of their own noble dreams. People who still cared. People like Simmons.

“This job is a joke,” Simmons repeated aloud the truth that he deigned to agree with. Grif had a way with words, and Simmons could never get them out of his head. The eternal plight of the everyman arose from wanting more out of one’s job. Simmons hadn’t become an editor so he could spend every waking moment dreading the newest clickbait that he would no doubt have to approve anyways. He joined for an experience, the chance to find new work and to be a part of a process that brought art into the modern age. Instead, what he got was an opportunity to be an accomplice to the shady business of false internet promises and half-baked concepts.

He turned a corner, preemptively experiencing the relief of being able to rest at home after a today. Just a few more strides, he could throw his jacket on the floor, pass out on his couch. The anticipated sensation of taking his shoes off had alone given him a spring in his otherwise dragging steps. He picked up his pace, the night air now filling his brain with cool, clean thoughts of sleep. He reached his door, nearly lunging for the handle when his phone went off.

‘Work is calling…’

\--------------

The biggest pet peeve that Simmons had was hearing the sound of other people eating. Grif was courteous enough to eat with his mouth closed, but some people just didn’t get the message no matter how many times Simmons tried. Fred Sunshine was one of those unfortunate few. He slopped on the other side of the line, and the image of a half-eaten piece of cake being devoured nearly gave Simmons a headache. He scraped away at his own pan of macaroni, ignoring the slurping sounds (how do you even slurp cake?) that paused his speech. “Sir, I still don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, really.” Another bite. “What Mr. Grif does makes money. So, we want to focus on his work. See if we can recreate it and turn it for more profit.”

Okay, Simmons thought to himself. He already knew Fred was a pretty shallow person. He didn’t change his last name to ‘Sunshine’ for tax purposes. “Yeah, I heard about the raise. But why are you calling me?”

“Well, you’re going to need to train him. He is getting a promotion.”

Simmons choked on a forkful of mac and cheese. “Excuse me?” There was a small clatter of dishes on the phone, but no response. Simmons had a suspicion that he was getting more cake, since that was the only thing he ever saw the man eat. That, or mint ice cream. “What do you mean, he’s ‘getting a promotion’?”

“Richard, we’ve been considering ways to boost our business for a very long time. You know our usual method of spreading news hasn’t been working.”

Simmons did know. Primarily, Sunshine Publishing (guess where that name came from) made newspapers and flyers. The kinds of free magazines half-filled with advertisements and left to gather dust in grocery stores made themselves at home next to Sunshine’s “Golden Word”. Despite the little income that those complementary doorstops brought in, Sunshine didn’t compensate through any other medium. The only half-assed attempt at trying new media included the dismal online site that was basically abandoned on Simmons’s front steps. Past Grif’s clickbait, the company’s online magazine was a ghost town of old news and poor formatting. “And you think that Dexter Grif is the way to…?” He let the question hang in the air.

“Don’t you see? It’s time for a change!” Fred gained traction as he explained. “What Sunshine Publishing needs is a fresh start, and it’s the time of the internet. What Dexter represents is more like a bundle of energy,” Simmons snorted, “and a chance at utilizing the biggest mound of creative resources that exists right in this moment. To sum it up, we’re moving forward.”

By taking two steps back, Simmons couldn’t help but think. Like many of Sunshine’s ideas, it was full of good intentions but carried out DOA. It reminded him of the professor he had in college, who acted less like a teacher and more like a drill sergeant who spent his spare time making advanced military strategies while practicing his pirate accent. Either way, no good idea was left unexecuted, no matter how poor the results are. Simmons sighed away from the receiver, as he heard Sunshine rustle around with some plastic packaging. “What do you want me to do?”

“Jus be at work a few hours early. Wiff Grif.” He said through a mouthful of food. “Big things are happening.”

He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, sir.” Anything to get him to stop talking.

“Great! See you then!” There was a click, and then Simmons was alone with his thoughts again. He scooped his fork against the edges of his pan of now lukewarm pasta. What would Grif think of this? A raise was welcome, but a promotion with the backing of most of the company? It sounded like too much work. Simmons checked his phone and frowned. It had been at least two hours since they had both left, and Grif didn’t live very far out of town. What could be taking him? He pocketed his phone and started to clear off the table.

Maybe he wants to celebrate something, Simmons thought. Simmons could have forgotten his own birthday again. He laughed, remembering how Simmons had let Grif into his house last year, and then promptly asked: “What, is it my birthday or something?” He wasn’t sure if he had ever seen Grif laugh that hard, holding a cake with Simmons’s name on it. No one could make moments like that up. He looked up at the calendar. Nope, still two months away. He was thankful, in a way. After hearing Fred chew with his mouth open for twenty minutes, he didn’t think he’d have the strength to even look at a slice of cake.

Just as Simmons threw the cheese-dried pan into the sink, he heard a car door slam shut. There was no warning as Grif let himself into the house, carrying about three bags on his shoulder. “Don’t knock or anything.” Simmons snarked, as Grif tossed his carry-ons carelessly on his couch.

“That’s not even all of it.”

Simmons crinkled his brow. “What’s with the stuff? You’re acting like-“ Simmons stopped himself as he figured it out. He walked over to the door, seeing Grif’s car filled with bags and one large box, all crowding his back windshield. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you got kicked out of your apartment.”

“Okay. I didn’t get kicked out of my apartment.” Grif replied, still unloading more belongings out of his trunk.

“Don’t lie, either.”

Grif threw his arms up in the air. “I can’t do both!”

“Grif, you can’t be serious,” Simmons said, frustrated.

“Oh, it won’t be that bad.” He pulled another box out and thrust it at Simmons. “Besides, I got you something.” Simmons took the box in one hand, picking at the tape while Grif organized the bags that were accumulating on Simmons’s loveseat. Flipping open the top, he was greeted with white icing on top of a chocolate ganache that spelled “Best Friends Forever”.


	4. Chapter 4

The cake was alright, as cakes go. It didn't have that same appeal as cake presented before giving great news or celebrating another year of existence, but Simmons never could resist chocolate ganache. Grif knew that, seeing as he kept peeking at Simmons as he unpacked, hoping that one store bought cake had the ability to wash over the fact that he had just asked to stay here indefinitely (or, as Grif put it, "Just until I find a new place. A couple days at most").

As Simmons swallowed another bite, he also swallowed some of his pride. He understood what was happening; he had seen it play out before. Most of all, he was well aware of how far it dragged out. Days could turn to weeks the way that one ant turned into a colony all from one bit of uneaten brownie. Simmons repeated to himself that the cake was good if given before good news. Before bad news, then it just became a test in if he could keep it down long enough for it to digest.

"It's not the end of the world, man," Grif said, after a few minutes of Simmons glaring at him over his slice. He had finally gathered all of his belongings into a 'modest' pile in the living room. The modest pile was close to touching the ceiling, and Grif nearly tripped on it as he walked into the kitchen.

"No, you're right. If it was, I would have died the first time you did this," Simmons snarked back. "So what, you got kicked out? Did someone finally complain about the smell of your apartment?" Grif made a face at him. "Don't give me that. You're under my roof now."

"Whatever. You're not even my real dad." Simmons laughed at that, and Grif got a smirk on his face. "Actually, it's a pretty funny story."

He started to recall a long tale of how he had to leave his apartment, in a way that was obviously not his own fault but happened through a number of unfortunate and strange circumstances. His arms whipped and soared around them as if they had their own flight path. Simmons was so used to Grif's gesticulating habit that he no longer kept fragile items on his shelves.

The story went on for about five minutes, and then another three after Simmons had checked his watch. He knew that Grif could tell a good story, but he only did it when he wanted to convince Simmons of something or another. An article for work meant easy money, meaning someone somewhere had to care about the secret of orange peels just enough to click on it. But if Grif needed help from Simmons? That's when Grif broke out the big guns. He was impressed with the arc in this one: not many people put so much thought into a lie, much less give it the story structure of a college English essay.

Before Simmons could consider telling Grif that he could stay if he shut up, the story trailed off with an "And in the end, I took my keys, and threw it to the father. Told 'em: 'Take care of your family.' Then I was gone. I think I really saved that family." He held his arms open, a nonverbal expression of 'Wadda ya think?' if Simmons had ever known one.

"That's a good one." He said, having put down the slice of cake on one of the boxes next to him. "Quite liked the bit about the wild dogs."

"Wild geese."

"Right, right. Nasty birds, those geese," Simmons remarked, vaguely aware of the fact that geese weren't highly common in a city whose only lake was 15 miles out of town.

There was a pause, as Simmons stared at Grif with a tired expression as Grif stared back with his own pleading one. "Well?"

Another second. A few statements ran through Simmons's mind, the most prominent being 'You're letting him in? Again? What did we just do earlier today?' Simmons sighed, hushing those thoughts just in time to stop Grif from telling him another "Very true, what you will hear next will shock you" story about how Simmons should give him another chance.

"No more than two weeks this time, alright?"

Kids at Disney couldn't have looked as elated as Grif did, and Simmons's dread worsened. As he started to open the boxes and scatter his belongings across the floor, Simmons remembered the phone call from earlier. He fidgeted, a new crisis blooming in his mind. Sure, Simmons needed to tell Grif. Ideally, when telling someone they were getting a promotion, and when Simmons didn't believe they deserved it, he could do it over the phone, or via a paper-wrapped brick in their window. Not just that, but Simmons had to be the one to train Grif. The situation hardly ever resembled one where training a new hire meant they were going to replace Simmons. No, it was more relative to training a new hire to fill a role that Simmons himself had needed four years of college and even more years of experience to do so. In that moment, Simmons came to his own personal revelation: He would much rather kill Sunshine then let this all happen.

He took two steps towards the door and stopped himself. No, murder was illegal. And the last time he checked the statistics, murderers driven by poor bureaucracy weren't more likely to get pardoned than others. He looked at his floor as it was slowly being devoured by pieces of wrinkled clothing. "At least fold it," Simmons muttered, his resistance drained.

"I'll get to it," Grif said distractedly. He looked behind him, tossing another shirt. It landed in another box, which had apparently been his target. "Score!" He glanced up at Simmons. His face changed. "Hey, are you okay?" He looked back at the t-shirts, his eyes cast down. "Sorry about that. I'll get this cleaned up."

"It's not that," Simmons muttered.

Grif shifted, his hands fussing with a piece of clothing. "I can pay rent, too. Even if I don't stay too long. I mean, I didn't really pay last time and I can understand if you need it."

"That's not it either," Simmons replied. "It's not a bad idea, but I'm not worried about it."

He had been gazing at the box of thrown clothes, and just then looked towards Grif. There was now a clearing next to him. "Here," he patted the floor, "take a seat."

Simmons huffed. "How kind of you." He bent over to sit down, grabbing a shirt.

"You know me, always giving," he joked. "Ah, you don't have to help," he said, noticing Simmons beginning to fold the shirt.

"It's alright. You're sleeping there, after all." Simmons pointed to the couch that was indistinguishable from the rest of Grif's luggage.

"Oh," Grif mumbled like he was surprised at this. "You mean I can't sleep with you?" His voice got deep but cracked halfway when Simmons gave him a look, knowing what Grif was going to say before he could get the whole pick-up line out. "Kidding, I'm kidding. So, what's wrong?"

"Well-" Grif's shit-eating grin came to mind. "Never mind. I'm fine."

"Christ dude, just spit it out."

"There's nothing to spit out. I don't even spit. That's a disgusting habit," he defended.

Grif let out an exasperated sigh, something that Simmons rarely saw him do. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Nope, nothing to report. Definitely nothing that has anything to do with you. And most certainly nothing that has to do with me."

Grif set down the same shirt from before, his unpacking having slowed to a steady pace of stop after Simmons sat down. "Look, unless you're gonna tell me you got fired, then I won't care about your 'secret'."

"Worse," Simmons mumbled.

"Worse? What could be worse than losing your job?"

Simmons's gaze met Grif's, who almost recoiled at the sudden, intense stare. "Don't laugh."

\--------------

One guess. It took one fucking guess and then Grif was cackling like a maniac. Simmons held his head in his hands. "I knew you would laugh. Don't you understand what this means?"

Grif replied between guffaws, his voice displaying its own disbelief. "What does Sunshine think he's doing?" He attempted to mask his grin as Simmons stared at the floor through the gaps in his fingers.

"I wish I knew." Four years. A life filled with hope and a job opportunity worth a million bucks had turned into a four-year journey through hell. Simmons stared at the ground, the wood grain underneath barely noticeable past its new carpet of Metallica t-shirts and stained basketball shorts. When he was younger, he used to imagine faces in the grain, Edvard Munch-style screamers who constantly yelled at the people who would step on their faces. These days, they all resembled the Captain.

"Who was the Captain?" was the easiest thing to ask, and the hardest question to answer. Like any enigma, she covered herself in her own actions and no one understood who she was because eventually, there was no one who would ask. That interview four years ago was definitely the closest Simmons had come to getting behind how she thought, but it may have also been Sunshine's last chance at finding out the true nature of the Captain.

Simmons knew not her nature, but her internal motto was obvious enough, if a bit too simplistic to pin down. "Fight." Throughout the course of her career, and through no fault of her own, the Captain was plagued with failure and frustration. Despite her king-like demeanor, or maybe because of it, dragon-sized problems built upon themselves at her every turn, weighing down on her like the spirit of Morgan le Fay had claimed the Captain as the last rightful heir to King Arthur's throne. Alright, maybe that he was stretching the truth a bit. If Simmons was being entirely honest, he would admit that the Captain caused as many problems as she tried to solve.

It seemed she had this self-fulfilled prophecy to be the world's angriest martyr. There would be an issue at the company, or with a coworker, and the Captain would swoop in to save the day. That is, if "saving the day" and "start as much shit as possible" existed as equal phrases. A sure-fire method of keeping people safe (not one creepy boss wanted to mess with Diane after that last Christmas; amazing how deterring a few carefully decorated threats against one's life can be), at the cost of being Management’s worst enemy. In the interview she said that she "didn't make many friends", and she wasn't kidding. In a company where fighting against higher-ups could result in a pink slip for not just her, but anyone around her too, even the people she defended learned to stay far away. Simmons remembered something he had read a long time ago that resonated to this day. Everybody loves an underdog story as long as it's over. Because a dog belonging to a bad owner that is put down is just a sad truth of life, while one that is fighting for its life is considered dangerous and doesn't deserve to be protected if it's going to act out. And then the Captain was abandoned by people that wouldn't even claim to be her crew.

Damn that Sunshine for standing around and willing it to happen. It still wasn't grounds for murder, Simmons knew that much. Granted, he hadn’t been the one to fire her, but he certainly didn’t use his influence to defend her. Simmons had come to understand that Sunshine’s ignorance was a byproduct of his personality, and not the result of a stressful job. He would claim that it was “out of his control” when Simmons tried to ask why his boss did nothing. That he wanted to help, but it “wasn’t his jurisdiction”. Well it's too late now, isn't it? What good would it do? Four years later and he still seethed, glaring through the slits in his fingers and willing the wood under his gaze to burn before remembering that this was his own floor, and that spontaneous combustion (much like murder) never solved anything.

He also remembered Grif, who had stopped folding (or had he even began?) the shirt in his hand. He sat still, staring at Simmons with a bemused expression. Grif had seen this before in Simmons, and while it was understandable for Simmons to space out at a time like this, it was starting to worry him as the clock, partially hidden behind a tossed pair of pants, indicated just how late it had gotten. Simmons shot up and resumed folding. He muttered something like an apology, but Grif just shrugged. "It's alright. Long day and all that."

Simmons caught up with the rest of his surroundings. As it turned out, Grif had been folding while Simmons was lost in his own mind. More than a significant portion of clothes had been organized into manageable heaps. Of course, Simmons just had to detach from reality right at that second, and long enough for him not to notice Grif walk to the laundry room and get a few baskets. Or did Simmons get them without realizing?

He sighed, and it ran through his spine. Today had been a long day, like every other damned day. The pile next to Grif's slowly rose as Simmons's hands now moved on their own, which had been the plan before thoughts of a person he had barely talked to sprung forth.

A minute went by in silence. Eventually, it became too uncomfortable for both of them, and Simmons had another revelation that he might still not be registering that Grif might have been talking to him. In a situation like that, small talk usually worked to bring the conversation back. "Nice weather we've been having," Simmons muttered.

Grif looked out the window. A thunderstorm was forming directly above the town, stopping at the city limits. He snorted.

"What?"

"Nothing," Grif said, the grin back on his previously placid face. He glanced over at Simmons's pile; folds neater than anything in Hollister did little to hide the fact that Simmons had only folded about ten of them. Pity, he thought, that Grif would end up throwing them into the same basket as his own pile of haphazardly arranged articles of clothing. Hey, Grif may not work well, but he worked fast.

The new shirt in Simmons's hands stopped again. It turned over, falling a bit in his grasp. Simmons caught himself right then, swearing a bit as he flattened out the shirt once more. Grif didn't sigh, it wasn't his shtick. Instead, he picked up both piles in front of him, and placed them in a new basket. Simmons went to place his shirt on the pile, and looked up confused when he felt it fall through empty space and hit the floor underneath it. Grif chuckled. "You alright there?"

"Did you vaporize the clothes while I wasn't looking?" he asked, before noticing the basket resting on Grif's side. "Oh."

"Maybe you should get some sleep." Simmons got a sour expression on his face at that. It pained him deep in his soul when he watched Grif try to act like the responsible adult, all because Simmons's brain decided it didn't want to focus on anything else for the rest of the day. He wanted to remind Grif that he was currently standing in Simmons's nearly-paid-in-full house, thank you very much. As he found the words to convey just that his bones creaked, and a sudden heaviness manifested in his head. How late was it?

He scoffed. "I hate it when you're right." He clamored to stand up, reluctantly grabbing Grif's outstretched hand. He looked back at the mostly cleared off couch. "What are you going to do with the rest of it?"

"Sleep on it, probably." His grin got larger as Simmons glared at him. "God, I love when you get that look on your face."

"Which one?" he asked, remaining unamused.

"The one that says 'You're going to give me an ulcer before I'm thirty'."

"You are going to give me an ulcer before I'm thirty." Simmons turned to walk up the stairs to his room, and with each step it became extremely clear that Simmons needed sleep, and he needed it yesterday. He groped the banister like he was sixty years older than he was, but played it off as he noticed Grif watching him go up the steps.  
"You sure you don't want me to come up there with you?" Grif asked, his question bordering on worry more than flirting, making it even more embarrassing the second time around. He waved over his shoulder, trying to shoo him.

"Not unless you plan on spooning with me." Simmons bit his tongue. Never, Simmons repeated to himself, never get into a flirting match with Grif. The man could hit it back with the best of them.

The universe must have decided that Simmons had had enough for the night because Grif didn't take the bait. "I'm good, thanks for the offer."

He made the trek up to the top of the steps, gently falling into the door at the top, and then into the soft confines of an unmade bed. The lights around him, and the ones leading down to the first floor, all remained on. He settled in, deep as he could go into the sheets. If Grif, or anyone else for that matter, needed him they'd have to wait until Simmons was rested again (which was ideally after a few consecutive days of sleep, but the universe rarely showed such kindness twice in one day. His consciousness finally slipped, the events of the day no doubt ready to mangle themselves into a deranged dream he wouldn't be able to escape from.

He let out one last long breath as he stretched out on the mattress. He pushed his face into a pile of pillows, effectively shutting out all of the light and sound surrounding him.

So effectively, in fact, that he wouldn’t notice Grif coming up the stairs soon after. Grif chortled as his friend fell into an immediate deep sleep. He lingered in the doorway for a short moment before reaching up and flipping off the light switch in the room.


	5. Flashbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would've guessed that Grif knows how to fix a furnace?

Grif envied Simmons's ability to fall asleep whenever he felt like it. Sure, Simmons didn't sleep as much as he should, but Grif would trade anything for the chance to pass out whenever he wished it, rather than having a life filled with an urge to sleep but no actual sleeping. Grif's only consolation was that napping all the time fit into his personality and his schedule. Otherwise he'd been even more in the hole than he was now. His hand lifted off of the light switch to Simmons's room.

He walked downstairs, not bothering to soften his footsteps against the whining wood of the stairs. If Grif knew anything about Simmons, he knew that Simmons could go for days with barely any sustenance - but when he was out, he was out. There was no getting to Simmons after he hit his event horizon. Grif was also jealous of that. Contrary to the beliefs of most people who know him, Grif isn't a heavy sleeper. One could argue that his laziness perpetuated such a misunderstanding, but in truth Grif just didn't like working. And he didn't like most people. The trick of not being easily woken existed as an illusion; Grif just faked a deep slumber until whoever needed him decided that they didn't anymore. Ninety-eight times out of a hundred, it worked.

It wasn't hard to guess which one of the two times where it doesn't work for him. Simmons had gotten used to Grif's charade; it was the reason why they seemed to fit together so well. One could reason that 'opposites attract' had something to do with it, even with Simmons acting like all he wanted in this world was for Grif to stay at least several hundred meters away from him.

Grif cleared off what was left on the couch and gathered it into one of the boxes he used to move in with. He told himself that he would get that last bit sorted out in the morning, that this was just temporary. Yet, he had a strong feeling that this box would most likely stay the way it was until the day he moved out again. He put it in the corner of the living room anyways.

Grif never had nightmares when he slept at Simmons's house. Napping during the day had its own advantages, besides being an excellent deterrent to menial work and people who liked menial work. But while Grif had dreamt during naps before, to this day he only ever had nightmares alone at night. It was part of why Grif always enjoyed staying at Simmons's house - just to sleep during the day. Some of the best hours of sleep he ever got were when his own light sleeping and Simmons's constant urge to work combined. Grif could dream, and if he heard his friend quietly type or tidy up in the background, his subconscious kept calm.

(This habit also explained why Kaikaina asked Grif to visit so often; she had seen what Grif was like when he was alone, and a sister's concern [along with her ability to know all her brother's secrets] is eternal.) And still, Grif didn't like to talk about the nightmare thing. As long as he wasn't alone, the nightmares didn't come and that was all there was to say about it.

The house belonging to Richard Simmons was a cozy two story variation of a "semi-detached" house. The place was cut in threes vertically, with the new parts of the house sharing one wall between them. Anyone who bought the middle part of a semi-detached house would be at a slight disadvantage. Simmons liked to defend his choice by saying that he was paying much less in a mortgage. 

Past the blatant fact that the Simmons's space had only one window in the front of the house and two in the back, there was just one other factor keeping Simmons from being justified in his purchase - his abysmally small basement.

About a few years before Simmons had taken out a loan, the two neighbors on the other side of Simmons got into what could only be described as a "land war". There was no one in the middle, and both neighbors were unhappy with the rent they were paying, so parts of the house that could be modified (such as the joint basement) were fought over right up until Simmons bought the space. At this point, neither Simmons, the two neighbors, or the realtor had any idea how to split the basement, so both neighbors settled on taking as much of the basement in their own properties, set up walls, and gave Simmons an even bigger discount on a piece of land that Grif still claimed looked "like an interior decorator had served a life sentence in a solitary confinement chamber and this was where he died". The only stipulation placed upon Simmons was that every once in a while he was supposed to check up on the furnace.

Except Simmons didn't know how to maintain a furnace. Hell, Simmons was about as skilled with any non-digital technology as he was with talking to girls. Luckily for him, Grif did know his way around a furnace, because figuring out what was wrong on his own was much easier than paying a professional. Not safer, of course, but cheaper. It also meant that Grif didn't have to wear pants for the sake of some stranger.

Grif found himself in the kitchen. This was not a new phenomenon for him. He shoved his fist in the box of cereal he had snagged from the cabinet, and looked back at the basement door. Grif had offered to help Simmons with the furnace once, and after much pestering to get it checked by both neighbors and Grif himself, he finally relented. As bits of cinnamon toast crunched in his mouth, he spaced out.

\-----------

The first thing he noticed when he walked down the stairs was always how small the basement was. At first glance, Grif had assumed that the darkness was due to most basements having shitty lighting. It wasn't until Simmons switched on the lights that he realized the stairs and furnace was the basement. Save for one hall that led to a couple of large doors connected to the backyard, Grif could reach both his hands out and lay them flat against the walls around him.

"This has got to be some sort of fire hazard," Grif said aloud.

Simmons shrugged. "You should have seen the inspector come in. He took one look at the basement and just walked out. At least, that's what Nancy said." Nancy, being the neighbor that took the left side of the basement, had been adamant on keeping the inspection fast. She also seemed to be adamant about hammering nails into her walls at five in the morning.

"And you're sure that she didn't just kill him and stuff him in the walls?" He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. Simmons laughed, and stepped to the side so Grif could move past him.

"I don't think she'd be able to do something like that quietly." He watched Grif crouch in front of the furnace. He murmured under his breath as Grif pointed his light onto the pipes and gauge in front of him. "Don't think she knows how to do anything quietly."

Grif poked at a gauge, and nodded. That part honestly didn't do anything to fix it, but it was a trick that Grif had learned from the old plumber that used to come around and do nothing while charging twenty bucks an hour. He had added it to his list of "things that make you look like you're working when you're not".

"This is an oil furnace."

Simmons scoffed. "I knew that already."

"When did you last bleed it?"

Simmons furrowed his brow. "'Bleed' it?"

Grif looked up at Simmons. "Like, let out the air that gets caught in the line. It has to bleed out before it starts again." He motioned for Simmons to come closer. "Here, see this screw?"

Simmons crouched down next to Grif, and the remaining space in the basement cut in half. Grif could practically feel the wall against his back as he made room for Simmons. "What do we do?"

Grif shrugged. "I just need a wrench and a bottle. I'll teach you how to do this once, so you don't have to call me again in the middle of the night.

"I got cold, okay? I don't have the 'mobile insulation' that you do."

Grif snarked back, "I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Simmons shifted to stand up, as Grif shined his flashlight around the room, looking for any tools that might have been left behind. The light circled back, and hit Simmons right in the eyes. Simmons let out a disoriented squawk, losing his balance and falling forward.

One second of tumbling later, and Simmons was directly on top of him. In the midst of his fall, he had pushed Grif onto his back, leaning him against the wall in the most uncomfortable position imaginable. This was followed directly by the realization that Simmons was also laying on him.

They remained like that for a moment, still recovering from the tumble, as Grif remarked that Simmons felt about as comforting as a frozen blanket.

The moment passed, and the third epiphany of the position they were both in crashed onto their consciousness. They scrambled up, with Simmons trying to pull himself back while Grif simultaneously tried pushing himself up and pushing Simmons away. They straightened, both of them breathing a little harder. Grif eventually broke the awkward silence. "Didn't realize you wanted to pay me in sexual favors."

Simmons laughed while he caught his breath. "Anything to save money."

Grif rolled his eyes. "Tell you what, I'll eat all the food in your fridge and we'll call it even."

"You do that anyways."

"Just get the stuff before we both get covered in oil."

"Oh my," Simmons slurred in a low tone. Grif shot him a look.

"Not like that. It's fuel oil, which isn't fun or sexy. It smells."

"Alright, alright. I'm going." Simmons trudged back up the stairs, while Grif prayed the lighting was dim enough to cover the blush covering his face.

\----------

The box of cereal had dwindled down to a few handfuls by the time Grif had finished organizing the living room. It wasn't back to the way it was, but he could see the couch and that was a success in its own right. He settled back on it, dangling his feet over the edge. He kicked one, then the other. Right. The first thing that Grif's paycheck was going into would be a new couch. He tucked his legs in and lay out on his side. Would a new couch be enough? Maybe for now, he reasoned.

A smile grew on his face as he imagined just how much Simmons would complain about bringing it home and putting it together, despite Grif buying it for him. It was Simmons' own fault for looking so cute when infuriated. He sunk deeper into the cushion, his scattered thoughts fading out, until it was just the singular thought of Simmons running through his exhausted mind. He closed his eyes as Simmons putting the couch together backwards remained the final idea to put him to sleep.

The next morning was filled with Simmons's face, followed by the sensation of being pulled off of the couch.


	6. Is Cake Good For Your Skin? Find Out Now!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The amount of love for cake is inversely proportional to the love of transporting cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing a double post because I know it's been a while, and despite progress slowing, I'm still chugging along with this!

Madeline Lara slapped herself in the face. Both hands on her cheeks, once, twice. It was a thing people did on TV, so it was bound to accomplish something. Life imitates art, which in turn imitates life, which also meant that Maddie could slap herself in the face, a rush of newfound confidence would push her through the rest of her day. She turned her head back to the mirror. No difference in her demeanor, save for a deeper blush that lingered towards bruising- she had overdone it. Typical.

No matter, she thought. There were bigger problems lying on the table, besides the one that was busying itself with eating her leftover cereal. A new job was daunting and exciting, but would be about as useful to her as her college degree if she didn't make it in time. She checked the clock again, twelve minutes past the hour. A whole thirty minutes before she had to leave should be plenty of time for a girl who had mastered getting ready in five minutes since eighth grade. Taking a deep breath, Madeline pulled a stern look. She imagined walking into the orientation room with long strides propelling her forward towards her future. Politely refusing the chair they were bound to offer her, squaring her shoulders, clasping her hands in front of herself. She stared down the reflection, and repeated the statement she had practiced so carefully.

"Good morning. My name is Ladeline Mara, and-"

Half a minute later and Maddie still had her head in her hands. Her elbows balanced on the edges of her sink as she stared down the drain. If she quit now, or at least feigned a fatal injury, then she had a chance at keeping her dignity. She dug her phone out of her pocket, ready to dial Mr. Sunshine and tell him that she had unfortunately died, when it buzzed in her hand.

[You better not be doing what I think you're doing.] Another message followed before she could respond. It was an image of a rather perturbed looking cat with a lime peel on its head. Maddie smiled. It was a funny thing, having friends who knew what you were about to do before you had the chance to decide if you actually wanted to do it.

[Wouldn't dream of it.] She rushed out of the bathroom and stopped to pet Jefferson, who had switched from lapping up old milk to cleaning himself, and rummaged through the fridge. She fumbled with an energy drink and her phone in one hand as her other one grasped the bike lock stored in the back (after the third time of Maddie leaving essential items in there, she had realized this was the only way she would remember where things were). Giving her already irritated cat a peck on the forehead, she rounded the corner and headed out the door.

There was still fifteen minutes until she had to be there, and the traffic looked good. In fact, everything looked nice today. Locking her front door from the inside, she slammed it closed and squinted into an early morning sky. The sun shone on an older bike that she pulled out of a porch covered in junk and old furniture. As the wind picked up, it carried along like it was supporting her.

A belief she'd had since she was a child was that the Earth somehow knew about her feelings and empathize with her, similar to the way she supported the Earth. A distinct emotion, similar to hope, radiated within her as she sped up. This was the day she had always waited for, starting off with the perfect morning. She should slap herself awake more often.

Back at home, Jefferson tilted his head and chattered softly at the sound of a phone buzzing inside of a refrigerator.

\-----------

Usually when hands grabbed at Grif early in the morning, he either assumed it was because he was about to be kicked out of place where he was resting, or that he would need to make breakfast for the lovely person he had met the night before. As slender fingers took fistfuls of his shirt and pulled, Grif remembered that he forgot to account for the times when it was just Simmons trying to wake him up. He rolled over in an attempt to dislodge him, and was greeted with the quickly disappearing edge of a couch. His eyes shot open as the sight of a hard floor brought him back to reality.

A pause after a large thought left Grif a few moments to compose himself. Generally, composing oneself means to tidy up their hair or calm themselves in the midst of their new or alarming surroundings, and then search for something to eat. Grif composed himself by exclaiming "What the hell?" at Simmons, after which he would search for food. Food, like sleep, was always a priority to Grif, regardless of the circumstances. The window outside showed an early morning sun, and Grif's confusion doubled. He articulated such concerns. "And why the hell?"

"You knew that we had to be at work early to get you ready." Grif actually didn't know this, or maybe he did but wasn't listening. In his defense, paying attention to every single detail Simmons said was like listening to two radio stations from different counties fighting over the same frequency, when really all you want is to figure out how to play music off of the phone.

Grif picked himself up off the floor. Judging by Simmons's hastiness, the direct position of the sun in the sky, and his own morning breath, Grif estimated that they had ten minutes to get ready. This meant there was an extra ten to account for Grif's "morning routine" (e.g. sleeping while getting dressed, napping into a bowl of cereal), and another ten for traffic. In reality, Grif had a whole half-hour that he could stress before Simmons actually lost his shit.

He strolled past Simmons and into the kitchen, ready to regain his composure the way he knew best. Simmons was still talking, not so much to Grif but to himself. Grif replied anyways, throwing out the few comforting phrases he could offer, like "It'll be fine", "Seriously, I've been late so many times it's practically an art form", and "Are we out of Red Bull?"

They weren't, but Grif was having such a hard time finding anything with Simmons harping around him. He could barely reach a clearly hidden box of cereal without Simmons extending an arm around him and into the cabinet, knocking over four different boxes in the process. Grif feigned irritation. "Look, now you're making a mess."

"My house." Simmons pulled one of the two last energy drinks towards him before bolting out of the pantry, making Grif wonder why Simmons even needed them. He stuck his hand into his own prize, taking a fistful of cinnamon-sugar squares into his mouth. For what it was worth, it was sometimes hard to listen to Simmons. Well, most of the time. Grif had to admit that a lot of his problems came from the fact that he didn't listen to anyone for extended periods of time.

But Simmons was never hard to look at, in spite of how he used to look in their youth. Simmons had always been kind of a wonky kid. Long nose, big eyes and ears, mixed with a few gangly limbs, and he was a teenager as disproportionate as they come. Grif obviously had no room to compare since he never grew out of his own 'chubby kid' phase, and had only gotten taller and wider with age (and even then, Simmons still held a few inches over him).

But despite not having grown into his features as a thirteen year-old, he managed to pull it off after high school. Grif noticed every once in a while, saw how his cheekbones slowly lifted while a chin that could have stabbed someone at sixteen revealed a prominent jawline at twenty-two. His hair stayed the same shade of bright orange, but now cooperated with Simmons in a way that Grif could only pray for in his own wavy hairstyle. It pissed Grif off, how kind puberty had been to Simmons.

Grif moved past Simmons as he now ran his fingers through that hair, fiddling with any strand that threatened to look disheveled. He searched through the fridge while trying to stop the train of thought that barreled and skipped over its own rails.

Grif finally tuned back in just to hear Simmons say "What are you doing?" as his hand closed around the edge of a plastic plate.

"Well, my dear Simmons," Grif replied as he carried a pile of cake (mostly frosting, with some actual cake for good measure) with him and walked towards the front door. "I am grabbing our insurance."

Simmons gaze fell on the plate, and his eyes narrowed. "That's not gonna work."

"Fred can't yell at us with a mouthful of cake, now can he?" Grif said with a devious expression. He reached over with his free hand to muss up Simmons's hair before escaping out of the front door.

\-----------------

Traffic was moving along nicely. And by "nicely", Maddie considered that it seemed more like every car was so jam-packed next to each other that she could feel her claustrophobia flare up from just looking at it. The cars neatly arranged themselves at the intersection in a line that stretched much farther than Maddie's own patience.

She drummed her fingers on her bike's handlebars. There just had to be a traffic jam. The mile long pileup couldn't have waited for a day when Maddie would have been early. Then again, Maddie had a natural talent at being late no matter what circumstances she was thrust into. 

She waited for the familiar buzz in her pocket. Penelope would be calling her soon enough. Penny always called at the right moments, and with such accuracy that Maddie wondered if they were linked psychically. Of course, Maddie didn't mind the check-ups, or the not-so-occasional late night texts asking about her well-being. Actually, there were times when Maddie needed them more than she should. There was a refreshing feeling that came along with the idea of being supported and cared for, and the sensation tripled in its intensity when Maddie remembered that it was Penelope on the other line.

Penelope Vish, the coolest person Maddie knew - arguably the coolest person on the planet, with a million other problems of her own to worry about. Penelope Vish, who owned a motorcycle license and knew how to discern good brands of beer from the cheaper kinds, while Madeline rode a bike everywhere and only ordered drinks more likely to give her diabetes than get her drunk. Of all the people to associate with, Penny had picked her.

The cars hadn't moved. Maddie straddled her bike and ran calculations in her head. There was a detour that led right to the office, and she could get in there in a brisk twenty minutes if she peddled fast enough. Of course, there was always another way... but would Penny even answer so close to when they were supposed to come in? Come to think of it, it has been long enough, and Maddie hadn't heard a peep since she left. Maybe she would call first, explain herself before Penny labeled her new friend as a ‘flake’. 

She patted her flat pockets, rummaging in the back, then the front, then back again. A freezing panic washed over her. In front of her, two drivers exited their vehicles, angrily exchanging ideas about what they could do to the other if they just tried them, just go ahead, try it and see what happens. Maddie didn't hear them as she replayed the events of the morning.

Taking a deep breath, Maddie leaned forward and grabbed both handlebars. There's no way, she thought, her hands gripped tight, there's no way I'd make it. I can barely make it now, so there's no point in wasting more time.

The two men squared up, ready to make good on their ill-tempered promises. Maddie cursed, swung her bike around, and pedaled hard for her house.

\---------

"There are two guys duking it out in the street."

Simmons felt like his whole soul was screaming. He had flipped through every radio station, checked the filled roads around him four times for any sort of opening, and endured the long-pressed horns of every car in his immediate vicinity for about four minutes. Now, while this wouldn't initially seem like that long of a time to wait for something, Simmons is very close to being late. And, as Murphy's Law decrees, time has its own particular set of rules when someone is about to be late.

 

Simmons's phone rang loud on the floor of the car. He shut his eyes. A nervous energy powered through his spine and hands, stiffening the leg that planted the brake pedal to the floor. He sighed in an attempt to release the tension building in his body, and threw the car into park. Maybe, he hoped, Sunshine was in a friendly mood, or at least a mood where Simmons could explain himself without getting kicked to the curb.

He pried one white-knuckled hand off the steering wheel and reached over. On the other hand, Simmons worried, his boss could have spilled his coffee this morning, or read something distasteful in the paper, and his mood would be less than friendly. In that case, Simmons would have to explain that Grif and himself just happened to be witnesses to what was probably an Assault and Battery case, and as such would be late.

Grif snatched the phone up before Simmons could reach it, and answered it. "Sunny, baby! How are you?" Simmons looked at him like Grif had just grown a third hand from his forehead, and said hand was flipping him off. Grif raised one of his normal hands and made a motion for Simmons not to say anything.

"What? Yeah, don't know if we're gonna get there for that time. Me and Dick had a long night yesterday." He winked at Simmons. "Actually, he was pretty handsy this morning. We were almost much later than this."

Over the other end of the phone, Simmons could hear a faint sputtering, no doubt the sound of Sunshine trying to change the subject from something other than Grif and Simmons's non-existent affair.

There it was again - Grif's ability to schmooze his way out of any real consequences for his own incompetence. And yet again, Simmons questioned why Grif chose a career writing listicles. He groaned and turned up the radio. The same song that had been playing on every station had decided to repeat itself. He rested his head on the top of the steering wheel.

There were more people outside now, pairs of them holding back each of the men, one of them most likely calling the police. He turned his head to glance over at Grif. He had a pensive look on his face, the kind that he got when he was pretending to be listening carefully. Simmons wondered why Grif would practice an expression like that when Sunshine couldn't even see him, when he realized that Grif actually was listening carefully.

He leaned closer to Grif, straining to hear whatever had caught Grif attention. He mouthed "What?" before Grif tried to shoo him. Now curious and a bit annoyed, Simmons pushed himself across the car, and propped one hand up on the passenger-side door. His knees hit the center console as he lowered his head close to the phone. Grif had progressively slid further and further away from Simmons, cycling through generic responses to Sunshine. His voice was serious and slightly confused, which only heightened Simmons's anxiety.

As soon as Simmons could finally make sense of the words coming from the phone, Grif said, "Sure. I'll be there soon," and ended the call. He lowered it slowly, letting his hand fall into his lap. "Huh. Okay."

Simmons had just about had it with Grif. "You wanna explain to me what the hell you were saying back then and why it didn't just get you fired?"

Grif opened his mouth to talk but no words came out, so he closed it. He placed a thoughtful hand over his mouth, stroking the scruff where a beard would be. Simmons's arm shook slightly, and he lamented his own lack of fitness.

After a moment of Simmons staring at Grif and Grif staring at the floor, he tried again. Simmons leaned over Grif and hovered a small distance from his face. "What? What did he say? Did you get fired?"

Grif opened his mouth to talk but no words came out, so he closed it. He placed a thoughtful hand over his mouth, stroking the scruff where a beard would be. Simmons's arm shook slightly, and he lamented his own lack of fitness.

Simmons stole a quick second, while resting in the small space of the car, to look at Grif. The people that work with Grif (Simmons included) can make as many criticisms as they want about the man's writing ability. But there was a reason why people called Grif "charismatic". Simply put, he had most of the symptoms of attractiveness, but no concrete diagnosis. No one noticed how nice every part of Grif's body fit in with every other part. No one except Simmons.

Simmons noticed Grif's face most of all, which was probably a jealousy thing. Grif had soft cheeks and thick, expressive eyebrows that complemented that large grin of his in all the right ways. Not to mention thick waves of hair that lived in a perpetual mess. Simmons reckoned that Grif's only method of combing his hair was to run his own hands through it. Regardless the technique, it worked.

He stayed, now leaning over Grif and hovering a short distance from his face. "What. Happened."

After a moment of Simmons staring at Grif and Grif staring at the floor, he spoke again. "I mean, other than the fact that I'm an editor now, not much happened."

At that moment, Simmons's hand slipped up from the door, his elbow nearly falling into the cake that still lay in Grif's lap.

\----------------------

Two thoughts ran through the mind of Penelope Vish as she watched her best friend of a few months attempt to climb into her own window. The first one was, "Why is Maddie trying to break into her own house?" Another thought that was just as pressing on her mind was "How did Maddie get such a nice butt?"

"I would appreciate if you helped," Maddie said with a grunt, half of her body stuck in the inside of a windowpane, "instead of just standing there and looking at my ass."

"I thought maybe you were trying to be sneaky," Penny said while they both basked in bright daylight. "Didn't want to blow your cover."

Maddie grunted again, more out of annoyance at Penny than at her current situation. Her body slumped and her feet hung out the side, toes dangling an inch off of the ground.

Maddie had a knack for giving up early. There's a very good chance that this statement would have been Penny's first impression of Maddie. That is, if her first impression hadn't taken place at a bar downtown where she witnessed a heavily inebriated Maddie stage-dive off of a counter and break a pool table. At the time drunk-Maddie seemed much more fun than any sober person she had ever met.

How funny, Penny remarked, that she would come to like sober Maddie so much more than her drunk self. Must be some sort of superpower.

Maddie whined, her feet now kicking. "Can you just help me already? Jefferson won't stop licking my face."

"Ah, sure." Penny snapped out of her flashback, and moved to pull her friend out of the window. She hesitated, unsure as to where she should put her hands, before settling with Maddie's hips. "Okay, on three, push yourself back and I'll pull."

"Okay." A few tries later, and Maddie was free from the window and left with minimal bruising. She dusted off the cracked paint and plaster that she had also freed from the cheap windowsill on her way down. "Thanks for that."

Penny nodded. "Alright, let's go."

Maddie shifted at that, reaching up to play with a piece of her hair. "About that... I don't know if we'll make it. It's already so late and that's not ever your fault or anything." She had progressively gotten flustered as she explained, "I've done this before, honestly I'll probably be late to my own funeral." Her eyes turned down.   
"Maybe I'm really not cut out for a high-end job like this."

Penny rolled her eyes. "Have some faith in yourself, Maddie. Besides," she reached down to where Maddie's gaze has fallen, and grabbed whatever had grabbed her attention. "I have a Plan B." She extended the dark, metallic-looking object towards Maddie. "Here. Take."

Maddie gingerly took the motorcycle helmet. Turning it over, she realized what it was and let her eyes grow wide. "Are we really gonna?" She let the question hang in an air of optimism.

Penny gave a cat-like grin as she pointed at the parked motorcycle behind her. "Is there any other way to travel?"

Maddie's smile was always so large and excited, and this one was no different. Use your powers for good, Penny thought.

"What were you doing in there, anyway?"

"Oh, I forgot my phone in the fridge." She received a raised eyebrow from Penny combined and a barely contained smirk. "Ended up getting caught on the way out." Maddie laughed, and then reached back. "It probably isn't even that late, now that I think about-" She froze.

"Maddie? You okay?"

Maddie’s face paled. "I left the phone on the table."

Jefferson passed by the window. The open window was tempting enough for most cats, but the feline soon realized that Outside didn't have food nearly as good as what was in his cans.

Penny caught a glimpse of the white furball before it decided it would go hunting another day. She sighed. "Alright, gimme a boost."

\----------

Click. The sound of a camera's shutter echoes in a discordant way, barely bouncing against the glass directly in front of it. The noise hangs in the air of a room containing less people than should honesty be present. Everyone, or at least most of the staff that wasn't let in on the plan, haven't come in. Better they don't, the man behind the camera figured. If they knew what was going on under their noses, none of them would pass it by willingly.

Click. Chad Delange missed the days when he was a child playing with a disposable camera. He missed the grinding wind-up after the equally satisfying click of the camera. In times like those, there wasn't any sort of digital display to rely on to find the perfect shot. He had to risk it – have faith in the shot or lose it entirely. That, in Chad's mind, was the purpose of photography, the meaning to journalism. To catch everything without regret or a second-thought. Time is, as they say, a precious commodity. To capture even a split second of life is to capitalize on a concept way beyond our understanding. It is to take what is inconceivable, and forcibly make it physical.

To Chad, it was... liberating. He paused to realign himself in front of the window. They were driving up now, both coming in on different roads yet ending up at the same corner of the building. Unable to see each other, unwilling to think past their own present. He moved in closer, the edge of his lens grazing the glass. He hummed to himself, wishing he could just open the window and take his opportunity.

Beside him, a man stood up straight, and sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. "Something catch your eye?" He asks, less because of genuine interest and more out of a desire to push the silence of the room from his mind.

Chad muttered a short response. "Something like that." Two vehicles, four people, one... cake? He watched as the one man that exited the passenger seat passed the cake off to the driver hurriedly, like it was a precious artifact that needed to be inspected before it destroyed the planet. In retrospect, this would probably be the best angle Chad could find. The fingers that cradled his camera so carefully twitched in anticipation.

Imagine those that make fake jewelry, or publish bootleg restaurant cookbooks. Everyone wants to have what's precious, even if it means going through cheap and shady means of getting it. How was he or anyone else different in their motivation? Scum is scum, but everyone succumbs to the desires of the public, just as public opinion influences what humans choose to desire.

"You know, I gotta say," the man next to Chad declared, "I can tell who you are. A go-getter, a maverick. You've got something I haven't seen in a while. Real honest-to-God potential." He took a moment to cough in his elbow. He pointed over to the window. "I don't reckon that most people would see what you do," he paused to down the last of his coffee, "especially through a window as dirty as this one."

"Well, I suppose," he trailed off, certain that this sort of dramatic talking would appeal to a guy like Fred Sunshine. All four of them were beginning to converge, all in such a state of panic that they can only think as far as their immediate future. Or, they might concern themselves with the future of their jobs, seeing as at least two of them were supposed to be Chad's new superiors. He lined up his camera one final time, and finished the thought. "I just like a good story."

The shorter girl rounded the corner first, just in time to collide with the skinnier man, along with the cake he was holding. Chad's finger pressed down firm as the preview screen showed a man getting a face full of a delightfully decorated and half-eaten cake.

Click.


	7. 12 Ways To Avoid The Flu; The Last Way Will Astound You!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny just can't catch a break. What she doesn't know is this makes her more like Mr. Simmons than she realizes.

Penelope stared at all three of the people that now called themselves her co-workers. Specifically, she stared at Maddie, who had ended up just as miserable looking as the dude with cake covering the side of his face. She wanted to reach over, to clutch the hand that Maddie was hiding, because she knew it was shaking. Penny didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than the guy who took a pie in the face; As it turns out, the person who threw the pie can be just as embarrassed.

The man in question (she assumed that she was supposed to call him Mr. Simmons) kept it together pretty well for someone who was now wearing a chocolate ganache as a hat. Or, Penny supposed, it only seemed like he was keeping his composure compared to his companion. Now, Penny knew that they were all supposed to address this man as Mr. Grif, or more preferably ‘Sir’, but as the four of them sat in Mr. Sunshine’s office she found that she was having a hard time doing either of those things. This may be because of the fact that she had been watching Mr. Grif fall into inescapable fits of laughter since the incident.

It also may have been for the fact that Penny herself was having difficulty with keeping herself from laughing as well. Still, her resolve had held up for as long as it took for their supervisor to escort them into his office. She was confident that she could last, so as long as she didn’t look at anyone other than Maddie. Easy enough.

“I’m sure you all know why you’re in here.” Mr. Sunshine started off in a low and authoritative voice. “Of course, I understand. I’ve been late more than once before.” He adjusted himself in his chair. Mr. Grif’s laughter had subsided again, but there would no doubt be a point where it would crop back up again.

Mr. Simmons was the first to speak up. His tone matched his demeanor, but that didn’t distract from the fact that he looked more like a circus clown version of Two-Face rather than an able businessman. “Sir, I’d like to apologize-”

Sunshine held up a hand. He chuckled in the hopes that it would lessen the tension in the room. It didn’t. “Please, Simmons. There’s no need to be so stiff.” He glanced at Maddie and Penny, giving them an attempt at a warm smile. Regardless, Penny felt a chill run up her back. “You may not know this yet, but I prefer people to call me ‘Fred’. After all, it’s two letters away from “Friend”, and ideally, that’s what I try to be.” Outside of the door to the office, Penny noticed the shadow of someone hovering nearby.

As Fred leaned over his desk and steepled his hands, Penny hazarded a glance towards Simmons. He had relaxed slightly as he heard that his lateness would be pardoned, but Penny’s attention wasn’t on that aspect of her new boss. A piece of filling that had started to melt was slowly traveling, down from the bridge of his nose and to the tip. Mr. Simmons remained unaware, or indifferent to this.

It fell off, silently landing on the carpet. Penny bit the inside of her cheek.

“Moreover,” he continued, “that little incident has given some, well, some insight.” He glanced over at Grif, who shook with the impending tremors of another laugh attack. “I had been hoping for you all to meet him under more serious circumstances, but maybe it’s better this way.”

While they all pondered just what the hell Sunshine was implying, the door creaked as if on cue. The figure shifted against the frosted glass, and as they passed through the doorway Penny caught a whiff of what must have been expensive cologne. The scent was not overpowering, but not very pleasant either. It was a fragrance that Penny could never tell whether the wearer was trying too hard or not trying at all to smell nice. In the back of her mind, she was grateful that Maddie never bothered to wear perfume.

She could see the man fully now, as he gently closed the door with one hand and cradled a large camera in the other. A knot that was no larger than an apricot core formed in her gut. There was no need to ask what 'that' was for, and judging by Simmons's concerned expression, there was no need to hide it either.

Maddie shifted in her seat. Penny turned in time to notice the man with the camera fixate his gaze on her friend. The stare was flat yet heavy, a sort of stare that only comes before extremely bad news or awkwardly timed flirting. Penny was almost certain that if she stuck her hand through his line of sight one of her digits would be laser-cut off.

The man stopped staring to give her a short wink and a grin. Penny lifted her hand in front of the man's gaze. She waved in an annoyingly wide berth, making the man flinch and then grimace.

Sunshine seemed to take this as a peace offering rather than the start of a tense co-worker relationship and stood up to greet the newcomer. "Ah, Chad. Right on time." He clapped a hand on Chad's shoulder. "Everyone, meet Mr. Chad Delange, your new Viral Photographer."

Chad grinned at all of them. It reminded Penny of an article she had written before about wolves that use a full grin when they show aggression. Lips that pulled back to reveal a full set of teeth, with canines that seemed just a little too sharp. He spoke, and Penny felt Maddie's hand place grip her arm.

"Thank you for having me here. I really hope that by the end of our collaboration, I'll have had the chance to make stories out of all of you."

\--------

"He's kinda creepy."

"That's a little presumptuous." Simmons's words came out muffled from behind a bathroom door. They were interspersed with the sound of running water in a sink.

"You were thinking it too," Grif replied from the other side. He picked his teeth casually as Simmons griped over the bits of 'sugary nonsense’ that stuck to his hair and clothing. In Sunshine's defense, he had let Simmons and Grif go home early after a brief introduction of the Clickbait Crew (TM), along with a short overview of what they were all supposed to collaborate on. At the same time, though, said introduction lasted four hours, and the overview stretched on for another two. "Thinking about it now, everyone else probably felt the same way."

Grif wondered about his future. This statement alone would shock most people that knew him (and probably more than the revelation that he didn't sleep all the time out of laziness). It would make more sense to run a team by himself -truthfully, Simmons had done nothing but boost Grif throughout his entire career- so what was the point in giving the man more work? Not only that but Grif had read that promotions can also be a challenge, just as much as they could be a reward. However, dumping three rookie writers and one colossal project onto Grif and Simmons felt more like a burden that Sunshine didn't want to take on.

And what was this project, anyways? As much as he could mull it over in his mind, Grif still couldn't make heads or tails of it. He replayed what Sunshine had said.

"It's more like a set of interviews. A collection, if you will, dealing with the real values of life. Of human existence."

"Okay," Grif had replied, "I'm not sure I understand, but whatever. How many interviews would Simmons be taking?" Grif was amazed at how Fred could talk at length about insignificant details while devoting little attention to facts that actually mattered.

"Oh, that doesn't really matter. Honestly, I'm looking for substance. Quality over quantity should be your goal."

"...Right." Actually, Grif wasn't amazed at all. Just a bit surprised that there was someone out there who ran businesses the same way that Grif wrote articles.

After far too much delineating, Grif and Simmons settled on eleven. Simmons explained that eleven interviews provided the perfect amount of material if they were ever compiled into a publishable work, and Grif noted that they could use "Up to Eleven" in the title if they so wanted to. Most importantly, they knew about eleven people in total who would be willing to help.

Simmons had been silent for a while now. Grif sighed. Falling silent, falling out of the world and into a dimension entirely detached from reality. This was just another "thing" he did, and seemed to be doing more often these days. He didn't like asking himself this, but Grif had to reflect on whether or not he was causing its frequency. Simmons had such a tendency towards kindness, a dangerous predisposition with "caring" that it wore down on his mental health.

He knocked twice on the door. "You still alive in there?"

The reply was immediate but low in volume. "Yeah." Buzzing silence, the telltale sign of Simmons wanting to say something, and stopping himself.

"You need a few minutes? I'll leave you be if you need it."

Another reply, now slower on the uptake. "Yeah, I think I need a shower. Wash all this crap off of me."

"Are you talking about the cake, or something more figurative than that?" Grif joked.

He was relieved to hear Simmons's tone lighten. "Man, I'm not sure anymore. All I know is I feel disgusting."

Grif smiled to himself. Come to think of it, Grif would probably want a shower after talking to Sunshine for as long as Simmons did. He straightened his posture and started to head down the stairs when Simmons spoke again.

“I can’t do this.”

He stopped on the second step. Small, the voice Grif heard was too damn small and helpless to belong to Simmons. The guilt that he had been trying to redirect towards Sunshine turned on him. Sure, Grif hadn’t directly caused this, but it was obvious enough that he had done nothing to stop it. Ask for a place to stay, be just competent enough to receive a promotion, and incompetent enough for the actual troubles to be placed on someone else.

He plopped down on the stairs and rested his arms on his knees. “I’m still here, you know.”

Simmons response was blank. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Grif’s shoulders sagged. No, blame was no good. Simmons had to learn how to say no to people. He had to put his foot down, make some rules, communicate at some level.

Of course, Grif had never listened to ‘no’ before. That was apparent enough. “I get it if you’re overwhelmed, I would be too. Still, I think you can do it.” Damn it, he had no idea what to say in situations like this. Why didn’t people come with manuals? Grif mused that if people were more like furnaces that world would be a much easier place to live in.

Simmons must have moved from the sink, because he sounded closer to the door than before. Still, he didn’t raise his voice. “Grif?”

“Y-yeah?” Grif voice wavered. Simmons sounded so distant, so unsure compared to the confident man who had powered through a full work day with ‘cake makeup’ on.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Grif was speechless. Manuals, Grif repeated in his thoughts, every person needed their own manual so that he would finally know where he had gone too far. Even when they were younger, he didn’t know how to help Simmons. In times like those, humor was Grif’s savior, but he couldn’t think of anything at all.

“Sorry,” Simmons mumbled after a few seconds.

“No, it’s okay.” The air felt thick with awkwardness. He lifted himself off of the steps. “I’m just... gonna...” Grif waited. There was no sound from the bathroom. He turned his eyes to the stairs, and headed down slowly.

There’s a point, in movies or books, where a character in Simmons’s position would call after someone like Grif. A heartfelt moment, or an important revelation. Maybe, Grif thought, just a reassuring smile between them. He waited, dragging out the trek down the steps for as long as he could. If it worked then, it could happen now.

A third of the way down the steps, Grif heard the shower head turn on. He laughed a little, a short and self-deprecating chuckle. Clenching his jaw, he walked a little faster down the last few steps. He probably should have seen that coming, despite how much the emptiness of it stung.

Nevertheless, Grif hoped the shower helped. Because ultimately, this day had been a long one, and the next couple hundred didn’t look like they were going to be any shorter.

He settled as best as he could into the loveseat, ready to face whatever guilt-ridden nightmares his brain had already prepared for him.

Hours later, and Grif would have finally fallen asleep. Soft steps, the sound of bare feet tiptoeing around wood floors that threatened to creak at the slightest pressure. There would be no carefully whispered words to be heard, no secret smiles or light touches as Simmons padded around the loveseat. He did, however, gently toss an old quilt over Grif’s body, to keep the cold away.

It was flu season, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Be prepared for another double post, and a message at the end.)


	8. I Met A Southern Pirate Ex-General and Here's What He Had To Tell Me About Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curious about love, life, and where either of these things are going? I went into a secret base with an ex-military pirate for some answers, and came out with so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, this is a long one.

Three short hours passed as Simmons counted the minutes that he was not sleeping. There was a tightness in his stomach, a weighted pit that did not lessen as Simmons continued to mull over the task at hand.

Everyone, Simmons assumed, has hesitations about starting a new project. Regrets are so common in the creation process that it’s a marvel how anyone would stick their neck out far enough to make anything. And journalism proves no exception to this role. Interviews require planning, equipment, and, of course, people to interview. Grif himself had been kind enough to assemble a list of interviewees (i.e. anyone they knew who lived close by or didn’t abandon them after college), and Simmons took care of the rest with surprising ease. So when the time was supposed to come, Simmons would feel that semblance of confidence, like the planning would help and that the worries he had now lead with a version of itself who lived in the past.

That feeling of confidence stopped as soon as his phone vibrated on the stand next to his bed. He rolled over and picked it up. Simmons hadn’t seen that number in a long time, but regardless it remained a contact in his phone. He accepted the call and placed the phone to his ear.

“I heard you were looking for me. Kind of a stupid thing to do.” The gruff, slightly southern voice rumbled through the receiver, muffled by a distortion that sounded like heavy wind. Simmons let out half-sigh, half-yawn as he prepared his own response. True to his nature, Sarge spoke before Simmons could even mumble out a question.

“If you want to know what’s really going on in that spic ‘n span little world of yours, then we need to meet on my own terms.” There was a cough, followed by a short curse from a man on the other end. “Can’t have anyone listening in. God knows what the government would do if they knew what I knew.” Simmons swore he could hear the sound of rustling branches, past the now obvious sound of wind pushing through into his ear.

“Sir,” Simmons knew that the only way the sergeant would listen is if he addressed him as such, “what could be so important that you would need to call me at-“ he pulled his phone away to stare at the time, wincing at the brightness- “one thirty three?! It’s almost two in the morning!” 

A short pause at the end of the phone gave Simmons a small hope that the other man had caught back up with reality. Instead, he heard a sharp tap on his window, the telltale sound of a rock being thrown at it. He fell out of bed at the sound, cautiously peered out of the bottom corner of his window, and groaned when he saw a figure standing in his neighbor’s bushes. 

The receiver filled with a soft static, before being replaced by Sarge’s ‘serious voice’ (which was no more serious than a cartoon pirate talking about Davy Jones’s locker). “There’s something I never told you about. Something you need to know,” he took a labored breath, like the information he had clung to his lungs like cigarette smoke “and you need to know now.” 

 

Simmons unlocked his window, careful not to break the rusted hinges that barely kept it up. He had gotten more and more accustomed to leaving his house in this manner, partially due to the immense amount of renovations that would put his door out of commission, leaving him with no other options than his back door or windows. Mostly though, leaving through a window meant that Simmons did not have to deal with whatever neighbor was pounding angrily at his door. A two story exit soon proved preferable to picking a side in a suburban “land war”.

He slid backwards out of the window, one hand planted on the bottom of the windowsill, another holding up the shaky pane. Breathing slowly and deeply, Simmons tried to keep his composure as his feet dangled out into the night air. Even with half of his body still inside of his room he could make out the sound of rustling leaves and a dry cough from outside. In the back of his mind, he hoped that the older man approved of the lengths he had taken to avoid others, even at the risk of serious injury. In the forefront of his mind he hoped that no one else could see him right now. He breathed deeply again before swinging his legs on to the cellar door that lay almost directly beneath his window. If he pushed his body down at the same time as he angled his feet to hit the handle of the door, he could probably not break his ankle. Truthfully, he had only had one incident where that happened, and even then it was only a sprain. He didn’t tell anyone what had happened (neither Grif nor anyone else needed to know that his social anxiety had gotten so bad that he would rather jump out of the window than face an angry stranger). 

Hopping off of the door and stalking out of his small backyard and into his neighbor’s, he jumped at the sound of his cheap window finally falling under its own weight and slamming shut. There was a silent moment of panic, not unlike the moment right after an expensive and very shatter-able thing settles into pieces on a mother’s floor. He looked back to his house, and then around to the two other homes surrounding it. No lights turned on and for the most part Simmons could hear no shouting. He pressed on.

Just as Simmons had expected, Sarge was crouched in a dense foliage and covered in what looked like an old camouflage blanket. He had some sort of duffel bag with them, the zipper opened to reveal at least one pair of binoculars and… a submarine radar? Did they even sell those to the public? 

He hesitated, nearly turning back to his house when he was pulled roughly to the ground. Sarge’s calloused hands had yanked him under the cover of leaves, coating the side of his jacket with dirt and resting him on a bed of pointy branches. Simmons cursed aloud, and was immediately shushed. “Not too loud, soldier. Can’t give away our position.” 

This was way past eccentric. If the years that Simmons had spent listening to his lectures at college (most of the students in that same class dropped out before the end of the first month, citing “aggression”, “tendency towards conspiracy theories”, “explosions”) hadn’t proved that something was up with the man, then this was damn well cementing it. He sat up, ready to greet the professor that he had had no contact with for ages, when he realized something else: He was sitting in his neighbor’s shrubs with a bonafide, from-another-universe, undeniably unstable and illogical individual, who (most likely) lost his job at the college and sought out Simmons personally, because there was “information he needed to know now”. 

That bit of information didn’t surprise him. What did was that Simmons had chosen to go along with this. So much so, that he climbed out of his own window to meet up with him, and still had not climbed out of the bushes and ran for safety. 

He let out a long breath, shrugged, and pulled out his phone. Might as well get it on tape. His hands fumbled with the phone. The thrill of sneaking out, coupled with the night air gave him an accelerated heart rate. His twitchy fingers dragged the screen too far, taking a few extra taps before he managed to open the recording app. Someday, Simmons thought, someday I’ll actually get a portable recording device other than this crappy thing. Willing that the device’s full charge would last through however long this took, he turned on the recorder, and turned to the sergeant just as he decided to speak.

“I am obligated to let you know that I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat, and that I have killed with my bare hands before.”

Had Simmons not known the guy as well as he did, there would have been no doubt that the older man used to be an actual Sargent. He had a short, stocky figure, with a square face that often reminded the journalist of the general from the Iron Giant. Further inspection showed that even this man’s mannerisms belonged in an episode of M.A.S.H. episode. Well, if Simmons watched M.A.S.H. As far as he knew, the only people that cared for the show were people like Sarge. 

Simmons checked the battery again. It would have to last, otherwise this frolic down the rabbit hole would be about as useful as the phone itself. Any other time, he probably would put up with his old professor’s antics, but “any other time” usually meant “daytime” or at the very least “after a decent amount of sleep”. Simmons knew that neither of these factors could be willed into existence, so he settled on giving Sarge a frustrated glare. 

The Sargent stared back in earnest. “I don’t like saying it either. It’s more of a government thing.” He drew himself up as if he wasn’t currently hiding in a bush. “This is the price I pay as a natural born killing machine.” 

“Well,” Simmons started off in a voice as authoritative as he could manage (while also hiding in a bush), “I’ll remember to jot that down. For now, I have quite a few questions.” He paused to struggle with his phone again, before pulling up a note. This could still be a decent interview. Simmons could make it a decent interview, “It’s not that special, just some fact checking, breaking the ice and-“

“Don’t need it.”

“I’m sorry?” Simmons’s hand twitched again, shutting off the display. He cursed, again. The cold had already seeped into his thin hands, removing feeling and replacing it with a debilitating shiver. 

“You should be. Can’t understand why anyone would want to take an interview in such an open place.” The man shifted in his stance. He eyed the street around Simmons’s house with swift, paranoid glances. Quick looks that reminded Simmons of a bird of prey, or perhaps a paranoid cat. 

Simmons mentally kept his mouth from falling open in confusion. “You… you brought me out here.” 

Sarge shook his head. “Son, if I was in your position, I wouldn’t have bought that pent-up little ramshackle you call a home.” Shifting in place, he took the radar-like device out of his bag. To Simmons’s amazement, it worked. Nothing showed up on the black and green screen but Sarge stared at it tensely. He shut it off and shoved it in his bag as quickly as he had grabbed it. “Right, enough chit-chat. We need to leave.”

Simmons sat, still a bit dumbfounded. He glanced back into the duffel bag, hoping to find an answer to at least one of the many questions he had about its owner. The bag gave away nothing, it aside from a vague musty stench coming from inside. He couldn’t quite place it, but he was pretty sure it smelled like old rations, or salvaged roadkill.

“I got a place. Top secret, guaranteed to be out of reach. I’ve equipped it with only state-of-the-art cloaking features, hidden in a place where ‘they’”, he enunciated the last word, “would never think to look.”

Sarge’s base was located in the far reaches of a deserted road, past where people had no interest in walking by. That was the “poetic” way of putting it. In truth, the base resided in the west side of the campus grounds at Simmons’s old college, at the end of a half-assed stone walkway, which most believed was abandoned about ¼ of the way through its construction. The building itself didn’t fare much better. The heavy, rusting door that claimed to be an entrance was one that Simmons recognized. He almost had a feeling of pride as the fact that the door had not fallen off of its hinges, and remained more or less standing in its doorway. Make no mistake about its usefulness, though. Anyone who Sarge seriously trusted knew the real opening appeared on its side. Simmons couldn’t tell you much more than that, as any other details would violate the “secret rules regarding secrecy” that Sarge had so adamantly enforced before letting Simmons into the base. And there wasn’t much more that Simmons could say about the base because of this reason. Rest assured, you’re not missing out on much.

The base had stayed in the same spot since Simmons had last been brought there approximately five years ago. He laughed a little under his breath. No one would ever know that the dilapidated shack from down the lane actually belonged to the equally rundown professor who spent of more of his time creating battle strategies against the “conspiracy of the week” than he did on teaching. Had the barbed wire and misspelled signs not been there, Simmons imagined that Sarge’s club might have been heavily populated with social outcasts and oddball geniuses alike. Yet it would be exaggerating to say that a club like that would reach more than 10 members. He supposed that there just wasn’t any hope that reptile people or “real artificial intelligence” would be taken seriously anymore.

Sarge followed in back of Simmons. They zigzagged across barren road, making a pattern completely unrecognizable to the cameras in the sky. “GPS,” the older man told Simmons, “it keeps an eye on all of us. And we just trust it’s looking out for our best interests. No one ever thinks about what it gets out of the whole arrangement.” 

“What if it’s only goal is to make roads safer, and care for the general welfare of the public?” Simmons replied innocuously.

“”What if’ means nothing. I know what it wants.” And with that statement, Sarge moved aside to reveal the real entrance to the base. The inside had changed. Not exactly cleaned up, as the same amount of dust covered literally every surface, but it had definitely changed. An old portable chalkboard leaned against one cement wall. Simmons perused the scribbles that filled every corner of its surface and then squinted at them. After a few moments a chill ran up his spine, and he looked back nervously towards the entrance (which also served as the building’s only exit). 

See, when Sarge had been his teacher, despite all the things that disqualified him for the job, there were times when he did teach. The conspiracy theories filled in about 60 percent of his curriculum, but even then there was legitimate knowledge to be found within the ramblings. To this day Simmons can still recall every branch and subdivision that existed in the U.S. Navy from the years 1943 to 1987, including those that “those fuckers at the Triangle won’t tell you about”. Even though it happened so long ago, Simmons could picture a similar conversation happening now. 

“Wait, sir. Don’t you mean the Pentagon?” 

“I know what the hell I said.” 

But this… this didn’t make sense. Scattered or illegible scribbles were no stranger to Simmons; oftentimes, they were just notes relating back to the process of a disorganized mind, like his own. No, the words scared him. Phrases both specific and vague littered the chalkboard, and spilled over into the wall surrounding it. They carried on, stretched past what seemed possible for a man of Sarge’s height, and ran along in lines that devolved into pattern-like messes. He took a step back, an emotion similar to awe but closer to fear filling his gut. In the cluster of images and symbols, there spelled out a word, and as soon as Simmons saw it he noticed its repetitions inside the madness. 

“Frankly, I should have seen it coming in the 60’s.” Simmons spun around. Sarge had settled himself at the one wooden table in the room. He was pouring alcohol from an aged bottle into two surprisingly clean scotch glasses. He topped off his glass with the last of the booze before gesturing for Simmons to come over. Simmons obliged, tiptoeing around files, and stopped near the edge of the table. Sarge pushed the glass in his direction.

Simmons eyed it carefully, and raised an eyebrow at Sarge. “Let me guess: the drink helps muddle the brain, so that no one can listen in to our thoughts?”

There was not a hint of amusement in Sarge’s face. “No, it just makes it easier to talk about it.”

Simmons considered the strange man again. Years ago, he had followed Sarge like a deranged puppy, always praising him on his ‘unique’ viewpoints while lapping up every word he spoke. Simmons probably considered himself a sage at that point in time. He lives to understand Sarge, to systematically tear apart his history and figure out how he had become so enigmatic. It didn’t help that Sarge himself encourage this behavior. Constantly ranting or arguing, always backed by the firm belief that he knew more than everyone else, that he was in the right at all times. 

The Captain would’ve liked him, he mused.

He sighed through his nose, and sat at the rickety metal chair he had been offered. “I have,” he paused to accept the drink, “so many goddamn questions.” Sarge said nothing. Simmons padded both of his pockets, and then pulled out his phone. 50 percent charge. Just enough. He flipped through screens like they were pages of a journal. They are, in the notes, were the questions that he had meticulously prepared for Sarge the day before. Sitting up straight, he pushed his mussed red hair out of his face, and smirked. 

“So, can I break the ice now?”

Sarge furrowed his brow at him. “Do you really need to?”

 

Simmons stared at a dead street in the wee hours of the night and pondered. He pondered about his life, mused about his surroundings, and felt within himself the urge to dig deeper, to pull from his own perspective and add a bigger meaning to who he had become. He wanted to do this so that he could answer the question of ‘why’. 

Actually, he wanted to ask himself these things so he didn’t have to register that the interview had been a complete fucking waste of time. He scanned the road again. In comparison to the ones surrounding his house, this one didn’t look that bad. Sure, it was mostly dirt in some places, and the construction crew hadn’t taken the effort to paint lines before they abandoned it, but the benefit of being absolutely abandoned meant there was no wear and tear. He envied the road, being able to stay pristine despite not having it all together, appearing at least stable in the midst of being left to fend for itself in an unknown world, alone and without purpose. He really envied the road. Simmons kicked up dust and recent memories of the interview. 

The word was “aliens”. That word which Simmons saw scrawled in heaping doses on the walls in Sarge’s base. It was his new theory one that he had been “finding the truth” on for at least a year now. While he had to admit the impressiveness of Sarge’s tenacity, the urge to retract the compliment came as soon as his teacher began to explain. 

“It’s an alien technology that they’re hiding from us.” 

“Just to be sure, when you say “they”, you mean some form of our government. Am I correct in saying that?” Simmons tried to sound professional for the recorder, and planned to be as uptight as possible right up until his phone died. 

“One form of our government, all of our government, hell,” he leaned in to say the last bit, “I don’t even think they know what’s going on.” 

Simmons nodded and gripped his glass. He took a tentative first sip, almost spitting it out. It had to be homebrew, the taste was too strong and cheap to be anything else. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to ignore the forceful winds that moved through a jacket that must have been made with tissue paper and good intentions instead of actual fabrics. Bad scotch lingered in his mouth, the small sip swirling in his head, or maybe that was the nausea he felt, lingering along with a hint of oncoming hypothermia in the present weather. Truly, that was a drink meant to be consumed, not enjoyed. He couldn’t wait to deal with his hangover at work tomorrow. Oh, wait, Simmons meant he couldn’t wait to deal with his hangover in five hours. He turned a corner, grateful that the route took less time to avoid the all Seeing Eye in the sky that was apparently powered by aliens from the future. 

“It’s the start of a war.” Sarge’s gruff voice got lower, as if that was possible. “It won’t be long until we have to get involved.” 

“Sir, you’re going to have to elaborate.” Simmons’s professional voice did little more to help the interview along. At this point, it was doing little more than sounding good. His knee bounced incessantly. 

“There’s not much to say ‘bout it.” Sarge replied. “There’s aliens, that’s for sure. Humans, too. Working together, fighting each other. I don’t really have all the details.” Simmons was grateful that the recording was picking up the responsibility of listening to his old teacher when he just didn’t have the patience for it. It was no stretch to say that Simmons would have also dropped out of Sarge’s class in the first month if not for the magic of tape recorders. 

Simmons managed to pull together a narrative that would make sense, which was quite the feat when it came from a mind like Sarge’s. It went like this: Sometime in the future, maybe 100 years from now, maybe five, we would discover the existence of aliens. Then, being the benevolent and intelligence species we are, we humans would immediately go to war with them.  
“Right, right.” Simmons’s finger traced the moist edge of the glass. His eyes glanced down at the phone. So far, so good…

Sarge’s words got faster as if his theory had finally come together at that moment. “It makes sense that we would. I mean, you’ve seen what we do to people that already live on this planet. Who says we would play nice with a bunch of interstellar know-it-alls? And what would they know?” 

Simmons dipped into the conversation every now and then to drop a “Sure,” or “Wow,” but mostly left Sarge to fill up most of the memory on his phone. Occasionally, Simmons also dipped a finger into the drink so he could smoothly glide it around the ring. 

Some factions of aliens would join us, others would oppose us, and our technology would grow in complexity at an exponential rate in an effort to conquer territories in space. Simmons’s fingers fidgeted in his pockets. There was a filmy texture on the surface of them that wouldn’t be wiped off that easily. He struggled to remember when he had handed Sarge his unfinished drink even though he was quite sure he did. The thought made him chuckle, which made him wheeze.  
“But that, that isn’t why you’re here.” He pointed to Simmons now, more focused than he had been for the entire night, more focused than one man should be after drinking his and his guest’s glasses of scotch. “What I believe is that ‘they’ already know all of this. They may not know where the aliens are, how we’re going to advance our technology, or who’s going to die in the firefight, but they know it’s going to happen. And they’re going to start recruiting soon.”

Simmonds didn’t need to ask ‘who’ they were going to recruit. He edged back in his chair, once again eager to leave this place. Yes, it was a load of crap. And yes, Simmons shouldn’t believe it. Anyone in their right mind wouldn’t believe that we were soon to discover aliens, and of course would fight them. 

Sarge’s eyes were dark. Simmons could have blamed it on the drink that he hadn’t really drank, or the atmosphere that merely gave Simmons an odd feeling of vertigo rather than any true fear, but there was someone else behind that stare, something large and ferocious and knowing and he would come back out of the spell once he left the base but right now Simmons’s blood ran like the currents in a river, fast and cold and wearing down at the insides which contained its rapids. 

He took a breath, trying not to let the older man see all of this. “Why us?” 

“Frankly, I understand why they would want an ace such as myself, what with my expert military knowledge and perfected leadership abilities. But I have no idea why in God’s name they would try to take you two. From what I’ve seen, all you both do is grovel at powerless corporate bastards and barely survive off of processed foods. No offense.” 

Simmons muttered “None taken” as he pushed away the paranoia of being drafted into a space army. Like that stuff could ever happen to someone like Simmons. He fiddled with the empty glass on the table, spinning and tipping it, its base trembling as Simmons’s knee shook the whole table slightly. He stared at the droplets in the bottom of the glass, pondering just what was in that scotch (if it could be called scotch) when Sarge mumbled something odd. 

“That boy puts you at too much ease.” The glass in Simmons’s hand stopped its movements, as did his knee. His eyes darted up from the glass to Sarge as a confused expression painted his face. It was Sarge who turned to look away this time. His eyes focused on the scrawlings that Simmons could now decipher as not just mad ravings, but complex equations and quotes from historic textbooks that Simmons had only vaguely heard of before. It imbued Simmons with that sense of nostalgic respect for the man who he had once admired all those years ago. 

Suddenly, a new train of thought crashed in and derailed the old one. “Wait. How did you know that Grif is staying at my house?” 

Sarge rubbed the stubble on his chin, “Do you want the honest answer, or the nice, sissy answer?” 

“Nice answer first.” He was ending the official interview before it got too personal. The list of questions on his phone could wait for another, more stable interviewee. A small knot tied in Simmons’s gut tied itself tighter as he reached over to his phone. 

“It’s in the way you act, right up until this second. The weak-willed lily-livered solider that I know would have never followed me out into the middle of night. You’re usually too nervous or too ‘concerned’ about ‘personal safety’ or whatever you like to call that nonsense.” Sarge muttered the answer, his interest all used up from telling Simmons his secrets. “Not sure why, but having Grif around makes you let your guard down.” Sarge looked behind him quickly, glaring at a perceived noise coming from the exit. “In my opinion, an attitude like that is going to get you killed.” 

Simmons had been pressing the power button over and over as Sarge talked. He breathed hard through his nose. Dead. He tossed it back on the table and faced Sarge. The voice he used now drawled out, lacking all in of its professionalism. “And the honest answer?” 

“I’ve been doing recon on your house for a few months. Wanted to tell you before, ‘bout all this. Wasn’t time for you to know yet. Any sooner, and you wouldn’t believe me at all.” 

Ha, well, Simmons thought as he hunkered down against the wind, I’ve got some bad news for you, sir. Cold gusts stung at Simmons’s eyes, forcing them to squint in the dark. Longs strides propelled towards what he hoped was his house. More than anything, his job was weighing down all the heavier since this last week. The ‘promotion’, the recent cake in his face, and these interviews hadn’t improved Simmons’s mental state at all. In the back of his mind, he continued to weigh the ramifications of murdering his boss. 

“Life isn’t as great as you think it would be.” Simmons didn’t regret that giving Sarge his drink, but he wouldn’t mind trying it again now. He slouched over the table, one hand rubbing his forehead. Exhaustion was settling in at last, making the words come easily. “Neither is the job.“

“Don’t think a job where you can’t defend your opinions with combat is a great job at all.” To Sarge’s credit, he seemed less angry than he used to be. Simmons remembered times when Sarge didn’t just suggest paintball matches to settle college skirmishes, he arranged them. “So what, you’re just going to let him walk into your private base and have you under constant surveillance?” 

Simmons laughed. “Why do you still think that Grif is purposefully trying to overthrow my life?” 

“He ate a week’s worth of rations on our summer mission in a day! How are you supposed to trust a man like that?” 

While he considered the point Sarge made, Simmons knew he had to stop blaming Grif for all his problems. That was akin to cheating or lying to himself. He wasn’t sure if Grif wanted the promotion (god forbid it made him do work), and he was pretty damn sure that Grif didn’t want to be in Simmons’s house in the first place. 

When Simmons left, he had asked Sarge what he was supposed to do about Grif, since it seemed that Sarge was the expert on being unbearable enough to push even the most patient people to the brink of murder. 

“Be honest.” Sarge punctuated the answer with a short nod. 

Simmons’s posture deflated. He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to walk out when he heard Sarge hand something to him. 

“No battle ever got settled through poor communication.” Sarge paused, then shrugged. “Except for the ones where the other guy dies.” 

“Thanks, Sarge.” 

The bottle sat awkwardly inside of his jacket, sloshing the sick smelling liquid around in a way that made him suspicious of how well it had been sealed. Maybe Grif did want to be there. Simmons was starting to dislike how much he had warmed up to the idea of an extended sleep over. Any time Grif used to stay over he would always buy food, or fix an appliance, or manage to be at the right place at the right time when Simmons’s anxieties got the better of him.

A car drove close to Simmons. Its tires turned against the small backroad and slowed considerably next to him. Simmons ignored it and kept walking until he passed the stop sign, gratified that he had prevented one unreasonable act from happening tonight. The last thing anyone needed was a man with homemade liquor in his jacket leering at a late-night driver. 

He stomped up his steps, not bothering to take the window into the house again. If anything, Grif would be too fast asleep to hear him. Gales of wind muffled Simmons’s numbed ears, yet his hand stayed unmoving on the doorknob for another second, and he glanced up at the road. 

The car was gone. Simmons shrugged, readjusted the alcohol, and opened the door. 

 

When Simmons wasn’t around while Grif slept, there would be the occasional times when Grif would dream about him. And no, the dreams were never as fun as one would like to imagine. It was funny, though, how Grif never seemed to dream of Simmons while the man was nearby. Still, he assumed that that was simply because he had grown so tired of seeing Simmons in the day that his subconscious would block him out during the night. 

A flash of a grimace passing on his face, Grif tried to grip on the couch but knew his fingers were no longer obeying him. He didn’t like dreaming about Simmons. This had nothing to do with Simmons himself. In fact, it should be said that Grif suspected his own nightmares originate from his own problems, just as someone who quits a game in a fit of rage comes to realize that his own skills are at fault. He tried to stretch his cold limbs out as a mind that fought for control forced itself to rest.

The familiar rumbles of a concrete road kept Grif from falling asleep in his own dream. Save for one side of his face, he was mostly warm. The car he rode in cruised down a well-lit street leading into the city. He shivered, a paranoid feeling fleeting across his mind as traffic signs blurred in and out of his peripherals. He recognized one of them, pointing towards the bridge ahead, and another talking about how said bridge could get icy during the winter. 

Simmons was driving, that was the next thing he noticed. Grif’s willed his body to tense, to move, but the all too powerful grip of sleep prevented it. The man was talking, and had been for a while now, yet none of the words registered in Grif’s mind. Much like any other day, he thought. His redhead companion looked over, finishing his statement with a lilted tone. Grif heard himself cough. He muttered an answer, incomprehensible to the conscious bits of his mind, the ones that had finally caught on to their owner’s paranoia. 

In spite of Grif’s nervousness, he got the urge to smile when Simmons laughed. Well, it was more of a chuckle that sounded much too close to a cough, and ended with a smile. Had this been occurring in an environment where Grif had more control over his body, then he wouldn’t have reacted. He let his body shift in his friend’s gaze, before mentioning that maybe the driver should focus not on glaring at him, but on the “icy” bridge. Grif ignored the strange lurch in his gut. 

Now, there was an issue that never needed to be discussed ever: Simmons’s smile. 

It had been so ridiculous before. Whenever Simmons used to smile it was all on one side, full of teeth and somehow more asymmetrical than the rest of his face. Don’t get him wrong, it was endearing as hell and made Grif crack as many jokes as he could just to see it. But when Simmons got older, Grif wasn’t prepared to watch that smile fit into a smirk that was, in his own words, “completely fucking unfair”. His lopsided grin had transformed into its own winning smile and the only thing that irritated Grif more than that was how much attention it got him. If Simmons did notice the effect it had on Nancy, or any random lady at the grocery store, then he didn’t show it. More likely, he had no idea in the first place. So, no, he wasn’t one to talk about Simmons’s almost-perfect smile. 

Regardless, it managed to calm the unsettling emotions in Grif, and he was thankful for the peace that came after. The neurons that ceaselessly worked in the daylight had just started to feel safe enough to sleep when Grif heard it. 

*crick-ick* 

If he had to guess, Grif would say that the crackling sound came from about twenty feet away. The noise, almost too muffled to be heard, preceded an even louder crunch. Simmons slowed considerably while he and Grif scoured the area for the source. However, one quick glance at the road showed that they were completely alone. 

A dream, it its simplest explanations, exists to comprehend the events of a person’s waking moments, and translate them into memory. Dreams don’t always have to repeat these sequences identically. Oftentimes, the emotions or subtler hormonal changes as a result of these moments are more than enough. And nightmares serve some of the same purposes and work in a similar way. In times of stress or right after trauma, the brain may relay back the feelings of panic/fear/embarrassment in order to cope and learn.

If Grif had been awake enough to reflect on this, he may have wondered what made him so afraid. 

He looked around on the road to see what could’ve caused such a reverberating phenomenon only to ultimately realize that they were not just the only ones on the bridge, but there was no sign of life anywhere around them. The few lights that could be seen from the city were slowly turning off, only for Grif to witness the dream going into slow-motion. His confusion grew, and disappeared in an instant as he understood that the lights weren’t being shut off, but had been blocked from his view. Grif’s vision fuzzed as a new shape, something like a dark monolith but too broken and jagged, rose in front of him. The car lurched forward and took its own path straight down. The darkness provided by pieces of falling road amplified the screams coming from Simmons and while fear had gripped Grif’s heart he found that he could make no noise.  
The car dove into partially frozen waters, leaving no time to open a window while water as thick as it was frozen covered the top of the car. Sounds of panic and struggle bounced off of the car’s interior as Grif watched the water’s surface rise higher and higher above them. A dazed thought drifted in his mind as he looked over to see Simmons pull apart his seat and reeled back to break the window closest to him. Before metal touched glass, Grif saw a hand that looked like his own reach out and grab Simmons. It was too late for it to do anything though, and water rushed into the car. It splashed onto Grif’s hand, and time caught up with such force that it pushed all the air out of his lungs. It was cold, impossibly cold to still be solid. He gasped hard, still holding on to Simmons’s arm, and pulled back. It didn’t matter, the water had reached their knees and showed no signs of slowing. Cold, numbing air froze his nostrils and labored his breaths. It stung his lungs, and he pulled Simmons closer to him still, hoping that maybe if he opened his door when they were submerged, that they could float up. But the hyperventilation pushed the air out of him as soon as he took it in, and the air was freezing, Jesus Christ how could air be this suffocating, he would drown before the top of his head even felt water-

Simmons’s movements were slowing as he clung to Grif. He needed to leave, now. One final current left the car with one last breath of air, and Grif swallowed. His chest burned and eyes stung as he dove underwater. 

And the world got brighter. He couldn’t help it, as stupid as it sounds. The relief of being given a chance caused Grif to exhale. In the fog of water and dim light, Grif’s energy left him as quickly as his last lungful filled, freezing his heart. 

Grif’s eyes shot open. He looked around confused, before the urge to prevent his death rushed up to him all at once and then he was choking, coughing out water that wasn’t there and gasping in cold air. His fit left him on the floor of a room that he finally recognized as his ‘home’. After a moment’s recollection, he noticed someone standing in the living room entrance. The door was wide open, letting in large gusts of winter wind inside as a poorly dressed man tried desperately to push it closed, muttering out frantic apologies. They turned around, and Grif saw Simmons’s frozen, but breathing figure. He was shivering, but alive. 

“I’m really sorry about that. Something came up, and I couldn’t miss the interview, and I know what time it is, I…” he hesitated, his words slurring as he looked for others that he could use, “I… I’m so sorry. I’ll let you get back to sleep.” He lumbered awkwardly past the couch, not bothering to remove his jacket, clinging to a part of it like a man smuggling a gun. 

Grif stood up as fast as he could without falling over, and caught Simmons by the sleeve. The man smelled of booze and his eyes looked like death, but Grif couldn’t let him go, not yet. 

His voice came out ragged and desperate. “Don’t go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you may be wondering why I'm double-posting again, especially when this latest chapter is clocking in at around 6,800 words. Welp, I have some odd news.  
>   
> That is to say, I'm on my way to finishing and self-publishing the second edition of my first book. Back in early November I hired an editor, and just a few days ago I got a heads-up saying it was almost done. As simultaneously exciting and terrifying as this news was, it also reminded me that I would have to put in a significant amount of effort towards adjusting the manuscript, working on the Ebook, going through the Kindle publishing process again, yada yada... And I wouldn't be able to focus on both the book and TL;DR.  
>   
> It kindof sucks that I will have to put this off, because I poured a lot of excitement into it and even had a seven page long outline. On the other hand, I have a seven-page long outline, so I'm pretty sure that when I do have the chance to pick this back up I won't be scrambling around for ideas.  
>   
> I'd like to thank every single person who took the time to look at any of my fics, and an even bigger "thank you" to those that commented and/or left kudos, because it convinced me that I had a chance at making something great. Now I just have to prove that I can.


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